When Harry Met Seeley
by razztaztic
Summary: AU: Human bones are discovered in Hogsmeade, dragging Brennan & Booth into a world they didn't know existed. I believe in magic!
1. Chapter 1

". . . and so we gather on this day . .. the twentieth anniversary . . . to dedicate this piece of land for a monument . . . a monument to honor those who fought in the last, great battle . . . a memorial . . . in remembrance of those we lost . . ." Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice rumbled through the large audience, reaching all the way to the back, touching each of them with its powerful tones.

"Never forget their sacrifices! Never forget those who chose what was right over what was easy."

The rich baritone rose in a dramatic crescendo. "Remember those who joined in the fight against evil! Remember those who lost their lives!" The audience began to shout with approval. "We have rebuilt that which was damaged or destroyed but never again will we allow the madness of the power-hungry to infect our community, to lay waste to us from within!"

"Never again!" he yelled. "Never again!"

The claps and cheers rose in volume until the ground itself seemed to vibrate. From his place behind a simple podium, on a high stage erected just for this event, the Minister of Magic raised both arms, encouraging those gathered to yell louder and clap harder. After a long moment, his arms lowered and the sounds died slowly away. He looked down at the audience and gestured to a man standing quietly with his wife and children.

"Harry, my boy, would you come up and do the honors?"

The people around him began clapping again, some of them pushing him forward, slapping him on the back and shoulders as he made his way through the crowd. When he walked across the stage, a chant started.

"Harry . . . Harry . . . Harry . . ." Embarrassed, he lowered his head, red sweeping into his cheeks. He caught the eye of his wife, who smiled and blew him a kiss as she called out his name. Shaking his head, he adjusted his glasses and looked up, smiling out at the audience.

The noise subsided when he turned his back to the assembly, facing the green field behind the stage. He raised his arms and lifted his wand.

"_Mobiliaterra_!" he called out in a strong voice, waving the wand in a large circle. There was an immense rumble as the ground in front of him shook. Tears in the earth began to form, grass and dirt crumbling together, collapsing into the hole being created. Suddenly, there was a loud, thin whine and the movement of the earth stopped abruptly.

The two men exchanged a puzzled look, stepping toward the back of the stage to stare down into the crater. Almost simultaneously, they looked back at each other, mouths hanging open and then turned back to the dark hollow.

Kingsley's voice was quiet. "Oh, dear."

Harry took a deep breath. "I think we might have to wait a bit longer for our monument, Minister."

The skeletal remains exposed in the dirt below leered up at them with a macabre smile, one arm bent at the elbow in a bony wave.

"Oh, dear," Kingsley Shacklebolt repeated softly.

.

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"Well, this is awkward," Ron said, standing next to Harry and staring down at the bones. "Was there supposed to be a body under the monument?"

"No," Harry responded, shaking his head.

"Who do you suppose it is?" Ron asked. "Someone killed by the Death Eaters or You-Know-Who?"

"Ron, honestly," Hermione stepped up beside Ron. "Voldemort has been dead for twenty years. There's no need for 'You-Know-Who' any longer."

"Yea, right," Ron said with a lift of his shoulder. "Old habits. Anyway . . . who do you reckon?"

"Dunno," Harry answered. "Could be any of the missing, couldn't it, the ones we never heard from again?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No, I don't think so." She hesitated before continuing. "I don't think it's one of us," she finished tentatively.

The Minister of Magic joined the group. "What do you mean, Hermione?"

"I can't be positive, of course," she explained, "but I believe that skeleton belongs to a Muggle." The three men stared at her in disbelief. "None of the spells I've used have told me anything. It's possible the bones are just too old, but . . ." she paused and bit her lip. "I also believe there's a bullet hole in the skull." Four heads turned immediately back to the body lying beneath them. "You can't see it from here but I noticed it when I walked around for a better view. And if I'm right, well . . . that's a Muggle weapon."

"Wicked," Ron breathed, shaking his head.

"A Muggle?" Harry looked askew at her. "This close to Hogsmeade? To Hogwarts?"

Hermione shrugged. "Minister, perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private?" She looked back at the crowd still milling behind them.

"Yes," he nodded. "Perhaps that would be best. Dawlish!" The auror hurried over. "Keep everyone away from this . . . this . . . well, whatever it is, until we decide what to do." Kingsley turned back to the dark gash in the earth and waved his wand in a wide arc. A thick, curving dome shimmered into place, covering the hole and blocking the contents from the view of curious onlookers. That task complete, he turned back to Hermione. "Now, shall we see if Rosmerta has a quiet room available?"

They picked their way through the gathered mass of wizards and witches, nimbly dodging questions. While Ginny and Mrs. Weasley gathered all of the children together, quieting their protests and questions with the promise of a trip to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes before the oldest headed back to Hogwarts, Harry and Ron followed Hermione and Kingsley. At the edge of the crowd, the Minister noticed the two men sticking close behind.

"Yes?" he asked with an arch of one brow.

Harry and Ron looked at each other and then at Hermione uncertainly. "Uh . . ." Ron began.

"We thought . . ." Harry's voice trailed off.

"Oh, come along," Kingsley gestured with one hand. "I'm sure the three of you will end up involved anyway." Inside the shadowed interior of the Three Broomsticks, he held a whispered consultation with Rosmerta before leading everyone upstairs. Finally, Kingsley shut the door of a small room above the bar and shook his head.

"Ah, well, so much for a quiet afternoon." He paced to the window and stared down at the busy streets of the village. "So, Hermione, you believe we have a Muggle killing on our hands, here in Hogsmeade?"

"I believe it's a strong possibility, Minister," she answered, taking a seat. "But the only way to be sure is to have an expert examine the body."

"Someone from St. Mungo's, you mean?" he asked.

"No, Minister. I don't believe anyone at St. Mungo's would have the expertise required for this situation." She hesitated a moment then added with regret, "I believe we will have to involve the Muggle authorities."

The Minister of Magic turned a severe look on her. "Is that your recommendation as Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Mrs. Granger-Weasley?"

She held his gaze. "It is, Minister."

"Do you have any thoughts as to how we should proceed? The potential for the exposure of our world is disastrous, as I'm sure you can appreciate, Hermione."

"Yes, sir," she responded. She pursed her lips and sat quietly for a few moments. "I believe as a first step, you should inform the Muggle Prime Minister of the discovery. We may require his assistance, if I'm right about the body."

"He tends to get rather upset when he sees me, Hermione," Kingsley smiled ruefully. "Are you certain we need to take that course of action?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry." She returned his smile sheepishly.

He sighed heavily. "All right. Any other suggestions?"

"I believe we can contain the risk to our world if we handle this properly, if we limit the knowledge of the discovery to only those Muggles directly related to investigating the remains. The fewer people we involve, the better."

"Hmmm," he murmured, tapping a long finger against his lips. "Yes, yes. And that would make it easier to erase their memories, as well."

Hermione grimaced. She had a particular distaste for memory charms. "If I may offer a suggestion, Minister?" At his nod, she continued. "There is a doctor lecturing at Oxford at the moment, from America. She's an expert on this sort of thing, on identifying bones. My father mentioned her on my visit last week; he's been rather impressed with her since she did a spot of work involving an archeology dig a few years back."

"An expert on old bones?" Ron whispered to Harry. "Americans are mental."

"An American, Hermione? Would that be wise, to involve one of them?" Kingsley looked unconvinced.

"In this case, I think so, Minister," Hermione insisted gently. "She also might be able to solve this quickly, which would be very helpful."

"Yes," he agreed. "A speedy resolution in this situation would be most helpful."

"With your permission then, sir, I'll visit her personally and make the request," Hermione offered, standing.

"You have it, my dear," he answered. "Perhaps Harry should accompany you?"

Harry looked startled. "Me? Why? I mean, I'm sorry, Minister, but I don't understand what purpose that would serve."

"What purpose?" Kingsley laughed. "Harry, m'boy, you're the most famous wizard of our time. Surely your history alone will impress upon this American doctor our great need for her services. Your position as Head of the Auror Office will also lend weight and gravity to our request." With a glance at Ron, Kinglsey added, "You might as well go along, too, Mr. Weasley. Strength in numbers and all that."

Harry mentally argued the fact that this American doctor wouldn't know anything of his history but said nothing aloud. Standing beside Ron and Hermione he barely suppressed a grin. Ron's face wore a similar expression. It felt almost like old times.

"Thank you, Minister. We'll report back as soon as possible," Hermione said.

"I have complete faith in you, Hermione," he said with a smile. "Good luck with this doctor . . . what did you say her name was?"

"Dr. Brennan," Hermione said. "Dr. Temperance Brennan."

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><p>.<p>

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**_I have two great loves in my life - Harry Potter and Bones. It's about time I let them say howdy-do._**


	2. Chapter 2

_AN__: __If__ you__'__re __reading __this__, __I__'__m__ going __to __assume__ you__'__ve __read __Harry __Potter __so __I__'__m __not __going __to__ explain __HP__-__related __story __elements__. __**(**__**If **__**you **__**haven**__**'**__**t**__**, **__**STOP **__**NOW**__**. **__**Go **__**read**__** the **__**books**__**. **__**This**__** little **__**story **__**is **__**nothing**__**.) **__My __HP__-__world __is __built __on __canon__ (__books__, __not __movies__) __and __from__ JKR__'__s __post__-__DH__ interviews__ (and from Pottermore if I ever get my frigging email!). __Where __I__ can__'__t __find __a __canon__-__based__ answer__, __I __just __make__ stuff __up__ (__because__, __hello__, __fanfiction__?). __Any __mistakes __in __Potterverse __are __totally __mine__. _

_Same__ goes __with _Bones_, __although __my_ Bones_-__world__ is __based __on__ the __TV __show__, __not __the __books __by __Kathy __Reichs__. __If__ you__'__ve __never__ seen _Bones_, __go __watch__ it__ (__and__ feel __free __to __hit __the __FF __button __in __S__6 __when__ you __see __a__ blonde__ chick __named __Hannah__). __This __story __will __include __spoilers __up__ through__ the__ finale __of __S__6 __but __anything __after__ that __is __just __my__ imagination__._

_I__ don__'__t __own__ any__ of __these __characters__, __blah __blah __blah__, __except __for __the __ones__ you__ don__'__t recognize__._

_I hope you enjoy it. :-)  
><em>

_ ._

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><p>"That's right, baby girl, just two more days." Booth sat on the bed with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him and absently watched his wife wander around their hotel suite getting dressed for the evening's event, the phone held to his ear while he spoke to their daughter. "Of course we're bringing you a present . . . It's a surprise . . . If I tell you what it is, it won't be a surprise . . . Of course I already bought it . . . No, Mommy won't tell you, either . . . Yes, for the boys, too." A bark of laughter escaped him. "No, something different. Stop fishing, Mo, I'm not going to tell you." Catching Brennan's eye, he pointed to the phone. "Yep, she's right here. Love you, too, baby girl."<p>

Brennan reached for the phone and sat down on the bed beside him, bending down to slide a shoe onto one foot. "Hello, Moira! . . . I also miss you very much. . . . No, we haven't been gone forever, just 3 days . . . Yes, two more . . . A very large plane . . . No, we're in a very nice hotel and I'm sure she is in one of her palaces . . . No, I don't know which one . . . I'm fairly certain you have to be invited first . . . Uncle Jack allowed Parker to drive which car?" Eyes wide, she turned toward Booth. "No, Aunt Angela was right, you are much too young to go with them . . . What kind of paint? . . . Is it removable? . . . The whole wall? . . . Where is Aunt Angela? . . . No, not right now, sweetheart, but after she takes the boys out of the bath, will you ask her to call me? . . . I love you, too . . . No, Daddy said it was a surprise . . . Yes, he really has it already . . . No, you can't pretend . . . A hint? Okay, you will like it very much." Her rich chuckle filled the room. "All right, I love you, too. Remember, ask Aunt Angela to call me. I love you, Moira. Goodbye."

She handed the phone to Booth, who took it with the hand that wasn't covering his eyes. "What car is Hodgins letting my 18-year old son drive?"

"Moira called it a Charger." Her head tilted curiously.

He groaned. "The '68 or the '71?"

"She's six, Booth. I'm surprised she remembered it was a Charger. Does it matter?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, dropping his hand. "He hasn't let _me_ drive the '68 yet!"

She leaned back on her hands, smiling at his exaggerated ire. "Don't you want to know about the paint?"

"Noooooo," he shook his head emphatically. "Whatever they did, they did at Angela and Jack's house and for two more days, it's their problem. Besides, they swore they could handle all six kids," he smirked. "So, they get to handle them." He paused. "Whose idea was it, did Mo say? Ours or theirs?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Let's blame theirs."

"I'm sure it was mutually agreed upon bad idea," she rolled her eyes. "But Michael and William are older so I agree. Let's blame them." Her gaze traveled over him appreciatively. "You look very handsome, by the way."

He gave her that wide grin that still managed to cause her breath to catch. "Handsome enough to stay in and skip tonight?" His brows wagged at her.

"As we are the guests of honor, our hosts might notice our absence," she answered with a smile of her own. He reached for her and tugged until she fell against his chest.

"You're the guest of honor. I'm the plus one."

She pressed a kiss on his chin. "You are _my_ guest of honor, Booth. It's so much easier to attend these events when you're with me."

"Well, as long as I'm good for something," he lowered his head to steal a better kiss as a knock on the door in the other room interrupted the private moment. "Wanna bet that's someone else bringing you another "Welcome to England" gift?" he grumbled as she pulled out of his arms and stood up, smoothing her dress over her hips.

"Maybe it will be another bottle of scotch," she offered, laughing when he held up both hands, fingers crossed on each.

Expecting to see a member of the hotel staff, she was surprised and mildly curious as she looked out at the three visitors standing in the hallway.

"Dr. Brennan?" The question came from the woman in the group. Attractive, with sparkling brown eyes and thick, curly hair, she wore a friendly, if somewhat uncertain smile as she held out her hand. "My name is Hermione Granger-Weasley. I am so sorry to intrude on your evening," she offered, with a glance at Brennan's glitzy dress, "but we would appreciate a moment of your time, if possible. It is a matter of some urgency."

"Bones?" Booth stepped into the sitting area from the bedroom, staring at the three visitors suspiciously. Behind Hermione, Harry drew his wand inconspicuously, waggled the tip and produced a thin sheet of paper.

He came forward, offering the page. "We have a letter of introduction," he said as Booth took it from him with a snap.

His eyes skimmed it rapidly before he walked to the door and ushered them in, closing the door behind Ron. "Come on in," he said with a smile. "What can we do to help?"

Somewhat confused, Brennan looked from his friendly expression to their guests. "May I see that?" she asked, gesturing to the letter he held. When he handed it over, she looked up puzzled. "This is a blank piece of paper." She looked from it, to her husband, to Harry.

"No, Bones," Booth shook his head. With one finger, he traced down the plain white sheet. "See? Hermione Granger-Weasley, Ron Weasley, Harry Potter." He glanced up. "That's you guys?"

Harry stepped forward quickly, his hand outstretched. "Harry Potter, sir," he explained, "and this is Ron Weasley." Ron received the same firm handshake. "And of course, Hermione," who nodded with a smile.

"Excuse me," Brennan interrupted. "Booth, this paper is blank." She shook it until it rattled. "There are no names written here. There is nothing written here."

Hermione met Harry's eyes for a moment before he gave a barely perceptible shrug. Resigned, she faced Brennan. "I'm sorry for the confusion, Dr. Brennan. I would like to explain, if you'd allow me."

Frowning, the anthropologist shook her head. "I'm sorry, we have a prior engagement this evening," Brennan said firmly. "While I'm sure any explanation you might have would be fascinating, it would be best if we scheduled it for another time. If you'll leave a number where we can reach you, I'll call you if we have any available time before we leave." Her tone dismissive, she gestured to the door.

"We found a body . . . well, bones, really," Hermione spoke quickly. "We were . . . actually, Harry was preparing a spot of land for a monument to be raised when it was uncovered."

Brennan shook her head. "Then you should call Scotland Yard, or one of the local authorities. I have no jurisdiction here."

"They can't, Bones," Booth inserted. "Didn't you read the letter? The village is remote and secret. They don't want people crawling all over it."

Brennan stared at him, mouth open. "Booth, there's nothing here." She spoke very slowly, waving the paper in front of him. He looked at Harry and shrugged in a 'what are you going to do?' gesture.

Having been quiet to this point, Ron's deep voice surprised everyone. "You're going to have to tell her, Hermione."

"Tell me what?" Brennan demanded. "No, never mind. As I mentioned, we have a prior engagement so if you'll please . . ."

"There's no need to worry about the dinner, Dr. Brennan," Harry said. "We've made other arrangements." He considered her thoughtfully. "I think Ron's right, Hermione. We'll have to tell her."

"What do you mean, you've made other arrangements?" Brennan's voice rose in anger.

"You really should read the letter, Bones," Booth said, kicking off his shoes and relaxing into a thick armchair. "It's all in there."

She huffed in exasperation. "There is no letter!" she exclaimed, taking the blank paper in both hands and tearing it into small pieces that fluttered softly to the floor. Arms crossed against her chest, she stared at the three people facing her. "Oh, fine. I don't know what is happening here but obviously, you're not going to leave unless I listen to you. So, go ahead." She inclined her head regally. "Tell me whatever story it is that you have to tell me, and then leave."

Hermione shared an uncertain look with Ron and Harry. "Very well . . . erm . . . perhaps if you sat down . . ." Brennan stared back stonily. "Um . . . no, then . . . All right . . . I mentioned that we discovered a body . . . I mean, bones . . ."

"And as I said, you should inform the local authorities. I can't help you." Her voice was expressionless.

"That's not possible, Dr. Brennan," Hermione said apologetically. "The village is . . . remote and rather isolated. We don't get a lot of visitors and a situation like this . . . well, it's never happened before."

"No one has ever died in this village before?" she scoffed.

"Well, yes, of course, but this particular person . . . I believe he was killed with a gun. I thought I recognized a bullet hole." Hermione tapped the side of her head above her ear.

"You know the victim was male?" Brennan asked, one brow raised.

"What? Um . . . no, no we don't know who it is. That's why we need you."

"You said you believed 'he' was killed with a gun," Brennan repeated. "So you were just being imprecise."

Behind her, Harry and Ron exchanged a hidden smile. It was rare for Hermione to come up against someone who was even smarter than she was, and it obviously flustered her to be taken to task so firmly.

From his comfortable seat, Booth stretched out one long leg to tap Brennan with a sock-covered foot. "Go easy on the kid, Bones. She's not one of your squints."

She tossed back an irritated look before addressing Hermione again. "Regardless, murder by firearm is no longer as rare here in Britain as it used to be, Mrs. Granger-Weasley," Brennan said. "The local authorities won't be shocked."

Hermione chuckled oddly. "Actually, in this case, I think they would be."

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Look, mates," he said loudly, claiming Brennan and Booth's attention. "Here's the thing - Harry, Hermione and I are wizards. Well, Hermione is a witch, but you get the point. The bones we're talking about, they were found in Hogsmeade, which is the only all-wizard village in Britain. We can't bring in any Muggle just because someone snuffed it, now can we? You're supposed to be brilliant so we came to you."

Brennan and Booth stared at each other for a second before both burst out laughing. "Oh, it's a joke!" Brennan exclaimed when she caught her breath. "What is a Muggle? Did Pritchard put you up to this?" Still laughing, she turned to her husband. "Booth, did you know about this?"

"It's not a joke, Dr. Brennan," Hermione interrupted Booth's denial, her hesitation and uncertainty gone. "We are wizards and we do need your help. This is a rather serious situation." When the laughter continued, she reached in her pocket for her wand.

In a blur of movement, Booth's chuckle was silenced and he was out of the chair, pushing Brennan behind him, his fingers closing firmly around Hermione's wrist. "Slow there, honey," he said, hard brown eyes staring into hers.

Behind them, Ron cursed under his breath, drawing his own wand as he took a step toward the man threatening his wife. From the corner of her eye, Hermione registered his actions.

"No, Ron, don't!" she called out sharply, her eyes still locked with Booth. Beside Ron, Harry quietly drew his own wand, watching the room's occupants carefully.

With an irritated huff, Brennan stepped up beside Booth and gestured to his hand still locked around the other woman's wrist. "It's just a stick, Booth. Let her go." He dropped a quick glance to the thin piece of wood then released Hermione's hand slowly but stayed where he was, directly in front of her, so close she was somewhat uncomfortable. The fire that had flashed hot in his eyes was only nominally banked.

Hermione took a deep breath and backed up until she was flanked by Harry and Ron. "It's not a stick, Dr. Brennan. It's a wand." She held it out in front of her, sighing when the two Americans exchanged a scornful look. She pointed it at the scraps of paper lying on the floor. With a flutter of movement, the page reassembled itself seamlessly and slid through the air to Hermione's free hand. "I apologize for the attempt to mislead you with this. You're correct, it is blank." She took the few steps necessary to offer the paper to Brennan. "We had hoped to be able to persuade you to help us without revealing our secret, but that is obviously not possible."

Booth took the sheet from Brennan. "There was never a letter?"

"No, sir," Harry spoke.

"I don't believe in magic," Brennan spoke finally. "You've wasted your time. A few parlour tricks aren't going to convince me."

Harry shrugged and waved his wand at the chair Booth had been sitting in. With a roar of sound, it caught fire. The FBI agent yelled, pushing Brennan away from the flames, grabbing a throw from the back of a small settee and beating at the fire as smoke and sparks filled the room.

Just as suddenly, the blaze died away and the chair sat there innocently, unharmed and untouched. Booth froze with the small blanket held above his head.

Brennan shrugged. "I once saw a man make the Statue of Liberty disappear. That wasn't real, either."

Harry looked at Ron and Hermione with a grimace. "It worked for Dumbledore," he said with a glance at the now fire-free chair.

Booth walked around the chair, running a hand over the back and leaning forward to sniff suspiciously. "That sure looked real to me, Bones."

"Optical illusions can be very realistic," she said with a lift of her chin.

Hermione's eyes narrowed and her own chin raised. "Fine," she huffed. Before anyone could intercept her she raced forward, grabbing Brennan's hand then Booth's. With a loud pop, the three of them disappeared.

Harry and Ron looked at each other and then around the empty room.

Harry rocked back on his heels.

Ron whistled tunelessly.

"So, business good?" Harry asked.

"Yea. George wants to expand to America." He glanced at Harry. "Let's not let him talk to this bunch. That big bloke's a bit scary."

"A bit."

With another pop, Hermione, Booth and Brennan were back. The women's hair was tangled and fiercely windblown and Booth was pulling the length of his tie off his face while he yelled at Brennan.

"Tell her, Bones! Tell her now! Tell her you believe them! Now!"

Answering their unspoken question, Hermione smoothed her hair and spoke quietly to Ron and Harry. "The top of Big Ben."

Brennan pulled her hair from her mouth and brushed more away from her eyes and stared in frustration at Hermione.

"We can go back, Dr. Brennan," Hermione offered. "Or perhaps you'd like to choose somewhere else?" Booth stood between them when Hermione took one step in the other woman's direction.

"No!" His hands stretched between the two of them. "Tell her, Bones! Tell her before she puts us on top of Mt. Fuji!"

"Mt. Fuji is in Japan, Booth," she pointed out needlessly, an obstinate look on her face.

"Distance is no object," Hermione said, with an obstinate expression of her own. "Perhaps . . ."

"No!" Booth yelled again. "Bones!"

Brennan crossed her arms and huffed. "Fine. Alright, Mrs. Granger-Weasley, I concede. I don't understand how your actions are possible but I will admit there is something here I can't explain." She gave Hermione an arch look. "For now."

Hermione responded with a brilliant smile. "There is no explanation for magic, Dr. Brennan. That's why it's magic. And please, call me Hermione."

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><p><em>Leave a review or I'll send Rita Skeeter after you. :-)<em>


	3. Chapter 3

The five adults passed an uncomfortable few minutes with no words exchanged. The toes of Brennan's left foot tapped impatiently but she remained silent, staring at each of the three people facing her.

"So," Booth spoke finally, his voice loud in the quiet room. "The deal is, we figure out who your dead body belongs to and then we're done, right? You'll leave."

Ron and Harry shared a look that mirrored the confusion in Hermione's voice. "We'd like your help, yes, but we can't force you, sir." Her smile was hesitant. "If you don't want to help us then . . ."

Booth waved a hand in the air. "You put us on top of that clock!"

"Big Ben."  
>"The Clock Tower."<p>

Brennan and Hermione spoke simultaneously and glanced briefly at each other. Hermione threw a side look at Ron, who shrugged his shoulders. "You weren't in any real danger," he said offhandedly.

"Never in any . . ." Booth spluttered. "That thing has got to be 300 feet tall! No!" he pointed to Brennan when she opened her mouth to give him the exact height of the Clock Tower at the Palace of Westminster. "I don't need to know exactly how high up we were to know what would have happened if we'd fallen off."

"Scared of heights, are you?" Ron smirked.

Booth glared back.

Hermione interrupted quickly. "Sir," Hermione smiled gently. "I wouldn't have allowed you to fall."

Booth considered her words in silence for a minute, looking as if he wanted to argue, and then shook his head rapidly. "Never mind. So basically, if we tell you that we won't help you, you'll just turn around and leave?"

Hermione's expression betrayed her resignation, her shoulders dropping when she answered, eyes on Brennan. "Yes."

"Well, then, goodbye," Booth said and moved to shepherd them to the door.

"If I say no, what will you do with the bones?" Brennan's voice halted the forced exodus.

"I don't know," Hermione turned back. "I didn't consider that. But they deserve a name, don't they, the bones? They used to be somebody's mother, father, son or daughter. We can't just ignore them now that they've been found."

"Oh, you had to put it like that," Booth muttered. Hands on hips, he shook his head at the ceiling.

"We thought . . . well, I thought," Hermione continued, "that you would be the best person to help us. My father is quite impressed with you. He says you're the best in the world at this type of thing."

"Yes, I am," Brennan answered matter-of-factly.

"Bones . . ."

"Maybe I could just take a quick look, Booth," she shrugged. "If I could reschedule my lectures . . ."

"We can arrange that, Dr. Brennan," Hermione offered eagerly.

"At least you'd have my permission this time," she responded with a bite to her tone that brought a blush to Hermione's cheeks.

"Bones . . ."

"You've been complaining about being bored since we got here. This," she waved at the three wizards, "is at the very least not boring." The sound of a cell phone ringing in the bedroom interrupted whatever he might have said. "That's probably Angela," Brennan said. "I'll be right back," she threw over her shoulder as she hurried into the next room.

Once again, an awkward silence filled the room. Harry's voice broke the quiet this time. "Perhaps if we sat down?" he asked, motioning to the seating area grouped in front of a fireplace. Booth pointedly avoided the chair he'd seen go up in flames; with a grin at Ron, Harry took that seat while Ron and Hermione sat next to one another on the small settee opposite both chairs.

Another long moment passed.

"Angela," Hermione began somewhat timidly. "Is that your daughter?"

Booth shook his head. "No, Angela is one of our best friends. Our children are staying with her while we're here. And," he added off-handedly, "she also works with Bones."

"Strange career to be so popular," Ron murmured to Harry.

Booth frowned momentarily then grinned widely. "No, not bones, _Bones_. Well, she works with bones, too, but I meant, she works with Bones. My Bones." Knowing he'd just confused them further, he chuckled and continued, "Dr. Brennan. She works with Dr. Brennan. Angela is an artist and some kind of computer genius. When she sees a skull, she can tell you what the person looked like."

Hermione shot a smug look at Ron and Harry. "And you're a police officer, is that right? And with Dr. Brennan and . . . um, Angela you solve old murders?"

In familiar territory, Booth sat back in his chair, relaxed. "I work for the FBI and they're not always _old_ murders but yea, you're mostly right."

"If they're not old murders, why would you need to rebuild someone's face?" Harry asked curiously.

Booth raised a brow. "There are a lot of ways to die that don't leave much behind to help identify the victim. That's usually where we come in." He cast a curious look at the three of them. "Not many people get killed in your neighborhood, I guess?"

A look passed between his guests he couldn't interpret. "Not recently, no," Harry responded for them, his voice quiet.

"So," Hermione chirped into the heavy silence that followed. "You refer to Dr. Brennan as Bones? That's rather a clever nickname for someone in her field."

The rakish grin was back. "I thought so when I came up with it."

"You mentioned children?" Hermione succumbed to the charm of his smile and sat back, relaxed, ignoring Ron's scowl.

"We have four," Booth replied. "My 18-year old son, a six-year old daughter and four-year old twin boys."

"Ron and I have two, a son and a daughter," she volunteered. "Harry has three, two boys and a girl."

"Your kids, are they . . . can they . . ." Booth waved one hand in the air, his question fading into silence.

It was Hermione's turn to smile broadly. "Can they do magic? Well, they're underage so technically they aren't allowed. But accidents happen, of course."

"Accidental magic," Booth repeated slowly.

"Yes. Children are sometimes unable to master their impulses," she explained. "They learn as they grow up. And of course, once they're in school they learn to control and channel their abilities."

"School."

"Yes. The oldest are already at Hogwarts. The younger children will be attending next year."

"What has warts?" Brennan asked, rejoining the group, perching on the arm of Booth's chair..

"No, sorry, nothing has warts," Hermione explained. "We were talking about Hogwarts, the school our children attend. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Oh." Brennan looked at them for a few seconds before pointedly turning to Booth. "That was Angela. Do you want to know about the paint?"

His eyes narrowed as they looked into hers. "I don't know . . . do I want to know about the paint?" She considered for a moment, then made a face and shook her head. "Then no, I don't want to know about the paint."

"All right," Brennan changed subjects abruptly. "When can I examine the remains you found?" she asked Hermione.

"We can take you now, although you might like to change first," she answered with a nod to the dress the anthropologist wore.

"How long will it take us to get there?" Booth asked.

The three wizards exchanged a glance. "About 15 seconds." Ron answered.

"You mean, we have to do that whoosh thing again?" Booth grimaced. "Can't we just take a cab?"

"Hogsmeade isn't exactly on a travel map, mate" Ron smirked, earning an elbow in the ribs from Hermione.

"There might be another alternative," Hermione murmured, thinking. "The Knight Bus?" she offered.

"No." Ron and Harry said together.

"Floo?"

"Carry floo powder in your pocket, do you?" Harry asked.

"No," Hermione admitted. "We could go through the Leaky Cauldron to Diagon Alley and use the floo network there."

Ron shot a brief look at Booth and Brennan who were clearly confused as they tried to follow the conversation taking place in front of them.

"Take this lot to Diagon Alley? Their heads would explode!" he said snidely.

"You know, buddy, I don't like you," Booth interjected.

Ron returned the glare. "You put your hands on my wife. The feeling's mutual."

"Your wife put mine on a roof!" Booth jumped to his feet.

"Yea and maybe next time she can just leave you there!" The two men faced each other with only a small oval table between them, irritation sparking the air around them.

Hermione and Brennan exchanged a glance filled with a familiar understanding.

"Ron."  
>"Booth."<p>

"What are you going to do," Booth jeered. "Get your little stick out and turn me into a frog?"

"Don't you dare, Ron," Hermione ordered.

"You mean he could?" Brennan asked incredulously.

"Yes," the witch answered. "It's a simple spell."

"That's impossible," Brennan stated. "There are concrete differences in the nervous system and the skeletal structure, not to mention the fact that a frog is amphibious and can remove oxygen . . ."

"Really, Bones? This guy is threatening to turn me into a toad and you want to stop and give everyone a biology lesson?" Booth expression and tone were filled with exasperation.

"Frog, not toad, Booth, and technically it was your suggestion and not his threat."

A chuckle from Harry diffused the situation. Hermione bit her lip to prevent herself from joining in, tugging at Ron until he sat back down beside her, continuing to stare narrow-eyed at Booth who resisted a similar pull from Brennan for a few minutes longer.

When everyone was seated again, Harry leaned forward. "I know this is difficult for both of you," he began, "but the first thing you have to understand is that everything you thought was impossible, isn't." He looked at them earnestly. "I didn't know about the wizarding world until my eleventh birthday and it was a shock to find out that magic was real. But it is." His gaze was straightforward and honest. "Magic is real. If you come with us to look at the body we found, you're going to see our world. It's not pretend. It's not slight of hand or a trick of light. It's just . . . magic." He glanced at Booth. "You're really not in any danger. We're here because we need your help." He focused on Brennan. "We came to you because you're the best person to help us, and because we hoped to involve as few people as possible. If you can help us, we can avoid telling someone who might then tell half of Britain."

"How do you know I won't tell anyone?" she asked curiously.

Harry shrugged. "We can't be sure, obviously. But Hermione believes you're trustworthy, and she's usually right."

"So what happens now?" Booth asked.

"Once you're both ready," Harry answered, "we'll take you to Hogsmeade using Side-Along Apparition. The whoosh thing," he added at Booth's questioning look. "It really is the best way to get there. The village is some distance away and the other alternatives would be even less to your liking."

"We can't just hop on a broom?" Booth joked.

"Even if Ron and I had our brooms with us, it's a long flight and you'd be very uncomfortable," Harry replied seriously.

Whatever Booth may have replied was lost when Brennan spoke up. "I believe it is only fair to tell you that despite what you have shown us and what you have said, I do not believe in magic. I believe there is a logical, rational explanation for everything we've seen, even though I haven't found it yet. That being said," she rose, "I'm going to change clothes. Booth?" she added, with a look at his suit.

Booth tossed a last glance over his shoulder at the three wizards before firmly shutting the door to the bedroom behind him.

"Tough egg," Harry said.

"Well, we knew it wouldn't be easy," Hermione responded. "At least she's going to help us. The rest will take care of itself."

Ron frowned at the closed door. "Hermione, what's the spell to turn someone into a frog?"

.

.

* * *

><p><em>Personally, I think Booth would make a very handsome frog. *lol*<br>_

_Thanks for reading and for the alerts, which I'm counting as anonymous positive reviews. _:-)


	4. Chapter 4

Travel to Hogsmeade from the tony hotel in the center of London where Brennan and Booth were staying took considerably less than the 15 seconds suggested by Ron. After the short argument that ensued when it was suggested that Booth travel with Harry and Brennan with Hermione, a suggestion Booth flatly refused to consider, no sooner had the Americans placed their hands on Hermione's outstretched arm than they were pulled into the twisting, suffocating pressure of travel-by-apparition, a journey which ended almost instantly when they stumbled onto the cobblestone street of an old English village lit by the fading sun of twilight.

"Yea, there's a rational explanation for that, Bones," Booth grumbled as he wobbled a bit trying to regain his equilibrium. She tossed an irritated scowl in his direction before looking around curiously.

They had arrived at one end of a long street lined on each side by shops. Candlelight flickered from behind paned-glass windows and at regular intervals, old fashioned gas street lamps stood in silent sentry over the throngs of people wandering down the street and in and out of buildings.

"Is this a bad time?" Booth asked. "Looks like the power's out." As they watched, a plump woman in long green robes stepped up to the first street light and flicked her wand sharply. Light burst from the lamp and the witch lifted her wand again and jabbed it up at the fixture, circled the tip twice in the air and pointed down the street. At once, the shadows of dusk disappeared as a cheery glow danced from every lamp. "Never mind," Booth muttered.

Hermione patted his arm gently in understanding. "The memorial site is this way," she said and led them down the street that divided the village.

Five minutes later, Brennan had only agreed not to enter and explore every shop when Hermione gently reminded her of the human remains waiting to be examined . . . and also by the witch's promise that Brennan would have all the time she wished to investigate the village at her leisure on another day.

"This is fascinating!" she whooped in excitement, staring into the doorways and windows they passed. "It's as if the entire community elected to stop evolving and moving forward at some point in the 19th century! It is a microcosm of a period in history that we've only been able to read about! Anthropologists have had to make educated assumptions about this era based on artifacts discovered in archaeological sites, but this is an opportunity to study it first hand . . ." Brennan grabbed Hermione's arm and began peppering her with questions about tools and technology and work and home environments. With a good-natured smile, Hermione answered every question and offered her own insights.

Behind the two women, Booth walked next to Harry and conducted his own silent study of the world they'd just stepped into. What he noticed had him slanting a questioning glance at the man beside him.

It seemed everyone they passed wanted to say hello or shake the hand of the wizard at his side. Women stood in shop doors and waited for eye contact before nodding. "Mr. Potter," they smiled. Men stepped forward, hand outstretched, or patted him on the shoulder as he walked by. A small boy walked out of a doorway, a large rat perched on his shoulder, and froze before running into a shop three doors further down, his excited voice clearly audible on the street.

"Mum! I just saw Harry Potter! Can I say hello? Mum! Mum! Mum!" Within seconds, he rushed back into the street, barreling down on them, eyes wide. Running too fast for an easy stop, he bounced off Brennan into Harry, who grabbed the boy's shoulders and brought him to a halt.

"Steady there, lad," he offered with a smile. The child gaped at him, open-mouthed.

"You're him, aren't you? You're Harry Potter?" He practically hopped in excitement when Harry nodded. "Can I walk with you for a bit? We're buying dress robes for my mum. I saw you earlier, on stage. What made that scream when you moved the earth? Mum says if I'm good I can have something from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Only no more ton-tongued toffee because I fed one to the cat. Do you have a cat? I have a rat, d'you see? His name is Herbert. My name is Stanley, by the way. You had a rat, didn't you? Only it wasn't a rat at all, it was an amig . . . it was an anila . . . Herbert is a real rat, I think. Do you think he's a real rat? Maybe he's a . . . one of those like you had, just pretending to be a rat?"

While Brennan and Booth stared at each other in confusion, Hermione pressed her hand against her mouth to hold in the laughter that threatened to escape. Harry bit back a smile and considered the little boy seriously. "The word you're looking for is Animagus," he said, repeating it slowly with Stanley. "But that rat actually belonged to Ron here," he added, reaching behind him to pull a resisting Ron forward. "Maybe he can take a look at yours and let you know what he thinks."

Ron gave Harry a look that promised retribution but picked the rat off the boy's shoulder, just as a frazzled looking witch came rushing out of Madam Malkin's, smoothing her dark grey robes over her hips. "Stanley!" she chastised upon reaching them, pulling him close to her. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Potter," she apologized profusely. "I hope he hasn't been a bother. He's wanted to meet you ever so long. He has quite the case of hero-worship for you." She smiled self-consciously. "Of course, you're a hero to us all, really."

Harry brushed aside her apologies and Ron took pity on him, holding up the rat and peering at it narrow-eyed. "Well, Stanley, as far as I can see, what you have here is just a rat. He's quite safe." Stanley took the animal back from Ron, his expression betraying his disappointment that his pet wasn't secretly a minion of the Dark Lord. After more apologies and assurances, Harry and Ron very solemnly shook Stanley's hand before his mother led him off, Ron's promise of a free box of canary creams adding a skip to his step.

When Stanley and his mother were well out of earshot, the three wizards let loose guffaws of laughter so contagious, a smile widened on Booth's face. Still chuckling, Hermione led the way once more toward the edge of town.

Booth watched as passers-by continued to greet Harry respectfully. "So," he said, still smiling. "Hero, huh? What did you do, save the world?"

Harry shrugged and kept walking but from behind the two men, Ron spoke.

"Yea, he did." His voice was soft and serious and Booth stopped to look at the red haired man.

His eyes moved from Ron to Harry. "I didn't know the world needed to be saved," he commented.

Ron's jaw firmed. "Lucky you," he said simply, and in the depths of his eyes lurked the memories of a brother lost, of friends and loved ones gone, of a time when fear was as bright as the shadow of a spell cast in the air.

Ahead of the three men, the distance between them and the two women grew, the wind carrying back brief bits of an excited remark from Brennan or a laugh from Hermione. The people of Hogsmeade simply swept around the men as easily as water flowing past a large rock in the middle of a river.

"I'd like to know that story now," Booth said quietly, gaze fixed on Ron. A long moment passed before Ron grunted and slapped him on the back.

"If I don't turn you in a frog, mate, we'll have a glass of firewhisky and I'll tell you all about it." They hurried to catch up with the women.

"Firewhiskey?" Booth asked.

Ron winked at Harry. "We have so much to teach you, Muggle."


	5. Chapter 5

At the end of the main road, Hermione turned left at a cross street and led them past the last of the shops and businesses to an open grassy meadow. The group skirted a small stage and came to a stop at a broad, opaque dome lying on the ground. A sandy-haired wizard in dark robes watched their approach.

"Dawlish," Hermione nodded in greeting before turning to Brennan. "This is where the bones were found. Oh," she remembered suddenly, "I should let the Minister know we're back." She pointed her wand, releasing a streak of silver that raced back down the street they'd just come up.

Brennan circled the edges of the dome, eying it critically. "The bones are beneath this?" she asked. At Hermione's nod, she continued. "I don't see a way to get in so that I can conduct an examination." She kicked it gently and a loud gong reverberated in the air. "Is there a way to get a crane here to lift this off?"

With a quiet pop, Kingsley Shacklebolt joined the group. Tall and imposing, the glint of the gold hoop in his ear matched the elaborate embroidery of the magnificent robes he wore. With a nod, he dismissed Dawlish, who apparated with a pop, and approached Booth and Brennan, his expression open and friendly, hand outstretched. "Well done, Hermione, well done."

"Thank you, Minister," she answered with a smile. "Dr. Brennan, Mr. Booth, may I introduce the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Minister, Dr. Brennan and her husband, Mr. Booth."

"Just Booth is fine," the agent said, grasping the Minister's hand firmly, registering immediately the aura of power and authority radiating from the regal figure.

"And Dr. Brennan," Kingsley's deep voice rumbled as he held one of Brennan's hands between both of his. "On behalf of the wizarding world, may I say how grateful we are to have someone of your expertise helping us with the difficult situation we find ourselves in. Whatever we can do to help you in your endeavors, the resources of the wizarding community are at your disposal."

"Thank you," she smiled back, responding as had Booth to the weight of control and command in his manner. "The first thing I need is to actually see the remains. How long before we can get a crane up here to lift this covering?"

Kingsley smiled down at her. "A crane won't be necessary, my dear." Facing the dome, he curved his wand in an arc over the dome. It shimmered and wavered momentarily before disappearing, leaving visible the dark slash in the earth.

Booth and Brennan exchanged glances before Booth leaned close to her ear. "Rational explanation, right, Bones?" She let him see her irritation before offering the Minister a tight smile.

"Thank you," she offered before turning her back on the rest of the group to approach the hole, Booth following close behind.

"Male," she said as she walked around the perimeter, peering down from above. She crouched to get a closer look before sliding fully into the deep crater. Closer now to the skeleton, she pulled a pair of gloves from the pocket of her jeans and quickly snapped them on. "I need more light," she said, looking around at the shadows of the deepening twilight. "Does anyone have a flashlight?"

"Oh, light is no problem," Hermione said cheerfully. With a flick of her wand, several brightly glowing balls settled into the hole, floating easily as they chased away the darkness.

"Right," Brennan muttered to herself, glancing up at the shimmering orbs before shaking her head and focusing again on the skeleton. "Caucasian," she added. "The presence of wisdom teeth indicate he was over the age of 18," she said, her fingers on the mandible. "Bone markers indicate approximately mid-30s. That's all I can give you regarding age until I conduct a more thorough evaluation." She brushed soil away gently from the protruding bones. "The remains have been here for quite some time. I'll need to do more analysis before I can give you a precise time frame."

"She knows all that just by looking at those moldy old bones?" Ron asked in disbelief.

Booth chuckled. "That's her magic," he said, grinning broadly at Ron's disgruntled expression.

Brennan ignored the chatter above her as she lifted the cranium from the surrounding earth. "You were right, Hermione, this a bullet wound. .38 caliber, I think," she added, looking at Booth. She turned the skull in her hands, exposing the large jagged gap of the exit wound on the opposite side. "Unless the victim was already dead when he was shot, this wound would definitely have been fatal." Looking at Booth again, she added "Based on the depth of the grave, I believe he was buried here after he was killed. We probably won't find the bullet." Transferring her gaze to the regal figure staring down at her, she continued. "I'm afraid, Minister," she said, staring up at him, "you have a murder on your hands."

"Oh, dear," he sighed. "I was so hoping you would tell us otherwise." He sighed deeply. "Well, Dr. Brennan, what would you like to do next?"

Brennan reached up and allowed Booth to assist her out of the hole. "What I'd like to do is transport the remains to my lab at The Jeffersonian. But I will probably have to settle for finding as comparable a facility as possible here in England. It won't be as advanced as my own lab, of course," she said matter-of-factly, "but I'll do my best to adapt."

"Would using your laboratory enable you to solve this riddle more quickly?" Kingsley asked, considering her seriously.

"Yes," she said. "My lab is equipped with the best diagnostic tools in the world and my team is the best available."

Kingsley tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well then, my dear Dr. Brennan, you may send this poor chap off to America on one last grand voyage. Better we have this resolved quickly than to take over some poor local doctor's facilities."

Brennan and Booth exchanged a startled glance. "Just like that? We can ship human remains out of the country, just like that?" Booth asked.

"Oh, yes," Kingsley replied. "The Muggle Prime Minister assured me I could take whatever steps necessary to avoid bringing our little community into the light." He smiled, his earring glinting in the glow of Hermione's glowing orbs. "I believe this qualifies as a necessary step."

Brennan shrugged. "All that matters to me is that I have approval. I'll just need to gather some tools to help me remove the bones, and a box or crate to ship them in. Booth," she looked at her husband, "I may need your help with the bones."

"What sort of tools do you need?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Small brushes and spades," Brennan answered. "I need to remove the surrounding soil from the area around the bones very carefully so as not to mark or damage the bones in any way." She paused and glanced at her watch. "I won't be able to ship them out tonight but I can have them ready so they can go first thing tomorrow morning. We should also phone Angela or Cam and let them know the package is coming," she added to Booth.

Hermione interrupted somewhat hesitantly. "If I may offer a suggestion, Dr. Brennan," she began, glancing between the two Americans. "If you'll allow us to help, we can move this along somewhat faster."

Brennan stared back suspiciously. "Help . . . how?"

"With magic, of course," the witch answered. "I can remove the bones without doing any damage at all. We can also arrange to have the package delivered to your laboratory by magical means and avoid the time limitations of Muggle air freight."

"What is this 'Muggle' thing you all keep saying?" Booth demanded, his tone exasperated. "We're Americans. I'm from Philly. Where the hell is Muggle?"

Ron snickered, earning a blistering glare from Booth. "It's not a place, mate. You're a Muggle because you're not one of us, a wizard. It's not an insult," he said, smirking. "Mostly. It's just who you are. Like, you're a Yank. You're a Muggle. Same thing," he shrugged. He smiled at Booth's obvious irritation and patted the older man's back. "No worries, chap. You're a good sort, for a Muggle."

"What Mr. Weasley is trying to say," the Minister of Magic interjected with a stern look at Ron, who tossed one last, slightly abashed look at Booth before falling silent, "is that it is simply a term used to describe individuals without magical ability. It is merely how we differentiate wizard from nonwizard, and no insult is intended." He nodded graciously at the American visitors.

Brennan ignored both men and spoke directly to Hermione. "Show me," she instructed. "Show me how you can remove the bones without causing damage." She pointed down to the skeleton. "Start with the right ulna."

"The what?" Hermione repeated in confusion.

"In the right forearm," Brennan instructed, rubbing her fingers down her own arm for guidance.

"Oh, yes, of course," Hermione answered, looking down at her own arm before stepping up to the hole. "_Ossorior," _she intoned, sweeping her wand slowly over the bones below. Tiny whirlwinds of earth and soil swirled around the right arm before a long, thin bone slowly rose and floated toward the witch.

"No," Brennan said sharply, interrupting Hermione's reach for the bone. "You're not wearing gloves." She plucked the bone from the air and examined it carefully. "This is the radius," she noted, "not the ulna but I can find no evidence of damage, at least none that is visible to the naked eye." She raised a brow at the other woman. "I recognized the words 'bone reveal,' " she said. "Do you speak Latin?"

"Not conversationally," Hermione admitted, "but many of our spells have a basis in that language."

"Well," Brennan admitted, "if you can remove all remaining 205 bones this easily, that would be very helpful. All I need then is a box and packing materials."

Hermione turned to the Minister of Magic and nodded back to the stage. "Minister, may I . . . ?"

"Of course, Hermione. It served its purpose," he nodded graciously.

She turned back to the stage and lifted her wand. Creaking and cracking, the wooden planks of the stage rearranged themselves into a rectangular wooden crate. From behind Hermione, Booth leaned toward his wife.

"Don't say it," she warned, staring straight ahead. With a chuckle, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, planting a kiss on her temple before releasing her.

"Is this large enough, Dr. Brennan?" Hermione asked, unaware of the interaction between the two Americans. Brennan looked from the crate to the bones and nodded her head.

"Yes, I believe so." She watched intently as Hermione, using the same spell she'd used to lift the radius earlier, removed each of the bones of the skeleton carefully and gently arranged them in the crate. Glancing into the box, Hermione frowned and circled her wand slowly. Inside, a soft foam appeared, cradling the bones and preventing them from knocking against each other. When all 206 bones were safely inside, Brennan looked back at the now empty hole.

"I'd also like to send some soil samples from the area around where the bones were found, if that's possible," she said. "I'll need some containers."

"Of course," Hermione said. "I'll just go and see what Rosmerta can spare." With a twist and a pop, she disappeared. She was back within minutes, glass flasks and jars clinking in her arms. "I wasn't sure exactly what you required, Dr. Brennan, so I brought several different sizes for you to choose from."

Refusing to look at Booth, Brennan smiled briefly. "These will do fine, thank you Hermione." Shunning the witch's offer of help, Brennan slipped back down into the hole and began scooping dirt into the different bottles, muttering to herself as she worked. Booth recognized a few words now and then and smiled to himself.

When the bottles were securely seated with the bones, Hermione sealed the lid of the crate. "What do you plan to do with the package, Hermione?" Kingsley asked in his deep, rumbling voice.

Having given this some thought, she answered immediately. "I thought I'd send it to Geneva Quimby, my counterpart in Salem," she said, looking at the Minister for approval. "She could pop down to Dr. Brennan's laboratory tomorrow morning."

"Hmmm," he nodded. "Yes. Yes, I believe that is an excellent plan. Dr. Brennan?" he turned to her. "Does that meet with your approval?"

"I don't understand," she looked at both of them in confusion. "You're going to send it to someone in Salem, Massachusetts?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. "And she will deliver it where ever you wish tomorrow."

"But how?" Brennan asked. "How will you get it to Salem, and then to Washington DC, all by tomorrow morning?"

"Bones," Booth stepped forward and murmured in her ear. "After everything we've just seen, do you really want to know the answer to that?"

She opened her mouth to respond, looked at the four wizards and closed it, shaking her head. "No. No, I don't want to know."

A sound from behind the group had everyone turning.

"Oy," Ron mumbled at the sight of his parents with a redheaded boy in tow. "The troops are all here."

"Ah, yes," Kingsley said, "Arthur and Molly were with me when your message arrived, Hermione. I asked them to give us a few minutes to, er . . . conduct our business before they joined us."

The young boy raced to Ron. "Dad," he whispered in a voice that carried, "are those the Muggles? Granddad said you were with Muggles."

"Hugo," Hermione scolded gently, shaking her head at her son. Gesturing to the two adults, she introduced them. "Dr. Brennan, Booth, Arthur and Molly Weasley. As you can probably guess by the resemblance," she smiled, "they're Ron's parents. Mum, Dad, Dr. Brennan and her husband, Booth."

"Wonderful to meet you," Arthur exclaimed, happily grasping both of their hands in turn. "Absolutely wonderful." He glanced behind Brennan to the still gaping hole. "And you're going to be helping us out of a spot of trouble, eh? Capital! Wizard – Muggle cooperation at its finest! How extraordinary!"

"Don't mind Arthur," Molly grinned cheerfully at both of them. "He's always beside himself when he has an opportunity to meet with Muggles. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Granger are only now getting used to him! Oh, Harry, dear," she continued, tapping his cheek fondly, "Ginny went ahead to the Burrow with Lily and Angelina to start dinner. Our little celebration in honor of the memorial has become a bit of something else, but no matter. Kingsley, you'll join us, of course?"

"I wouldn't miss one of your fine meals, Molly," the Minister of Magic intoned with a smile.

"And of course, Dr. Brennan, Mr. Booth, we insist on having you join us as well," Molly waved their immediate protests aside. "Nonsense, nonsense. You have to eat, don't you? Of course you'll join us!" Ron, Hermione and Harry looked on helplessly as Molly's friendly, forceful personality finally drew nods of agreement from the two Americans. "Wonderful!" she said happily. "I'll just go ahead myself – shall I take Hugo with me, Hermione?"

Hermione drew her protesting son close and kissed the top of his head. "Yes, please. We have a bit more to take care of here but we'll be along shortly."

"Very well, dears, see you soon! Arthur, come along and let the children finish up." Molly grasped Hugo's hand. "Ready, sweetheart?" she asked fondly. At his nod, she grasped his hand and disappeared.

Arthur insisted on shaking their hands for a few minutes longer before, with a cheery promise of a longer chat after dinner, he, too, disappeared.

The silence that stretched for the next sixty seconds was all the more noticeable after the noise and jocularity Molly and Arthur had brought with them. Finally, Ron began to laugh and stuck his elbow in Booth's side.

"In about thirty minutes, mate, you're going to wish I really had turned you into a frog."

.

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><p><strong><em>If you lucky people with early Pottermore access see a mistake I've made in post-DH canon, please let me know. Despite all my begging, I've yet to get my email. *sniff sniff* <em>**

**_Accio reviews!  
><em>**


	6. Chapter 6

It was a dinner they would remember for the rest of their lives.

Beginning with the house itself, with multiple levels that began at odd angles and sometimes jutted out strangely and, quite frankly, looked as if it would topple over with the first strong wind, it wasn't their usual night out with friends.

Booth kept an eye on Brennan as she carefully took in every detail and tried insistently, he could tell, to make sense of it all, to fit everything into the neat little box of knowledge and understanding into which, in general, life usually settled.

Until finally, she gave up.

Maybe it was the mirror that grumpily ordered Booth to comb his hair before dinner.

Or the knitting needles clicking away on a footstool in the corner of the living room unaided by human hands, one long sock beginning to take shape beneath them.

It might have been the pretty little red-haired girl who surreptitiously picked up her father's wand and pointed it toward the top of the tallest shelf as she whispered "_Accio__ Tales __of__ Beetle__ the __Bard__," _deftly catching with one hand the book that flew toward her.

Quite possibly, Booth thought, it was the absolute non-reaction of everyone else to all of the fantastic events happening around them. When Molly Weasley sent Ginny out of the room with instructions to "stick your head in the fire, dear, and find out when Bill and Fleur are coming," no one looked even slightly alarmed.

Whatever the reason, finally Brennan stopped looking for a rational explanation. Instead of trying to find real-life explanations behind the magic she saw, she began to study how magic was used as a substitute for the technology she expected to see.

It was a toss-up between who asked whom the most questions, Arthur Weasley of Brennan or Brennan of Arthur.

He explained that although cooking still required heat, fire could be created magically.

She explained microwave ovens.

He used the Patronus charm as an example of communication over great distances.

She taught him how to use her cell phone.

He described a simple potion that could regrow bones overnight.

She described open-heart surgery.

He used portkeys as an example of travel across miles and continents.

She told him about rockets and the Hubble telescope.

They could have entertained each other for hours but for Molly's insistence that dinner would wait no longer. Her not-so-gentle push to have them join the rest of the group interrupted their discussions.

In the garden outside the kitchen, chairs were arranged on either side of two long tables set end to end, providing one long flat surface bowing from the weight of the many dishes and platters that covered every available inch. Paper lanterns floated gently in the air, casting a warm glow over the family members mingling together as they waited to sit down. The number of people seemed to have grown as well, the Minister of Magic having arrived and with him Angelina, her hair now worn in glossy ringlets that skimmed down her back, and a shorter, stockier version of Ron who, incongruously, sported an obviously fake, large pink ear from which a sparkling earring dangled.

"George," Molly scolded, nodding to the ear. "Take that ridiculous thing off."

"But Mum," he answered with a cheeky grin, "We have company. This is my fancy dress ear."

"George," she said again, raising her wand threateningly.

He shrugged with good humor and touched the ear with his own wand. With a twinkle, it was replaced by an elephant's ear that flapped gently in the breeze. Lily and Hugo burst into laughter.

"George!"

He sighed dramatically and lifted his wand again and a tall, white rabbit ear attached itself to the side of his head.

"Yes! Leave that one!" Lily cried out.

"Not a rabbit," Hugo groaned. "Rabbits are boring. Let's see a goblin's ear!"

"No, I don't like goblins!" Lily complained. "They're scary!"

"That's because you're a girl," he shot back, smirking.

"Am not!" Harry caught her with an arm around the middle as she raced toward her cousin, murder in her eyes.

Ron lifted Hugo in a similar hold. "You're scared of goblins yourself, little git," Ron told him. He exchanged a laughing glance with Harry over the heads of their children, set the boy on his feet and gave him a light push toward a frowning Hermione. "I think your mother has something to say to you."

"Awww, Dad," Hugo whined, dragging his feet as he walked toward her.

Harry whispered in Lily's ear before releasing her. She tossed a triumphant look in Hugo's direction and ran to Molly's side.

"Never a dull day, right?" Harry said to a smiling Booth. "Is it like this for you?"

"Worse," Booth answered, laughing toward Brennan. "It's two against one – the boys gang up on our daughter. They don't often get the best of her, but that doesn't stop them trying."

"I pity Hugo when Lily gets a wand," Ron murmured, watching as Hermione finished her scold and ruffled their son's hair. "I've tried to warn him but he doesn't listen. Oh, well. I just hope the damage isn't permanent."

At that moment, Booth felt something around his ankles and looked down to see a small, lumpy creature poking at his socks with long bony fingers. "What the hell . . ." he yelped in surprise. Picking it up by the tuft of hair growing from the top of its head, he stared at the ugly, misshapen face as it squirmed and squealed in protest. When one sharp finger swiped too close to his face, he flung it hard from his hand. The chatter in the garden fell away into silence as everyone turned to watch the little creature sail through the night air, far over the stone wall surrounding the garden.

"Booth!" Brennan's hushed voice was shocked.

Her quiet voice was lost in the laughter and shouts that rose from the rest of the group.

"Did you see how far that gnome went?" George exclaimed.

"Are we de-gnoming, Dad? Can I try?" Hugo jumped up and down in excitement.

"I think you just broke Bill's record," Ron chortled, clapping Booth hard on the back.

"Hey, hey, what's this about my record?" The new voice had Booth and Brennan turning toward the kitchen as Bill and Fleur came out of the house. "I demand a rematch," Bill added with good humor, his scarred face smiling as he walked toward Booth, hand outstretched. Booth, however, was staring open-mouthed and slack-jawed at Fleur and ignored Bill completely. The lovely blonde glided with exquisite grace to Molly's side, long silver hair floating deliciously around her delicate features as she kissed the older woman's cheek. Appalled at Booth's rudeness as he continued to stare, Brennan loudly cleared her throat several times, to no avail. An annoyed sigh to her left drew her attention to Hermione, who rolled her eyes at Ginny. Ron, too, stared at Fleur with a wide, goofy grin. Harry was somewhat more discreet; his head turned away but his eyes slanted back toward Fleur.

"I know they can't help it," Hermione grumbled, "but you'd think after all this time they'd have more control."

Ginny grimaced. "Hit him," she advised Brennan with a nod of her head to Booth.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's the fastest way to snap them out of it," Ginny explained. "Like this," she said, rapping Harry smartly on his temple with the back of one hand. He shook his head once and adjusted his glasses, shooting an abashed glance at Ginny as Hermione slapped the back of Ron's head.

"Ouch," he grumbled, rubbing his scalp, the grin on his face sliding off.

"Surely that's unnecessary," Brennan disagreed. "Booth," she said insistently. "Booth!" She stepped directly in front of him and raised one hand in front of his eyes, snapping her fingers. "BOOTH!" Her husband's neck stretched as he lifted on his toes to stare besottedly over her fingers. A snicker behind her settled the matter - she lifted one foot and stomped his toes.

His smothered curse and watering eyes effectively broke the spell.

Bill's chuckle was friendly and knowing when he approached Booth again and this time, got a response. "Bill Weasley," he said. "It helps if you blink a lot when you look at her," he advised Booth in an aside as Fleur joined the group and was introduced.

"Harry!" she said, kissing him on the cheek, dropping the 'H' in the French accent she'd never lost. Minutes later, Ron received the same treatment while Hermione and Ginny were enveloped in a cloud of silky hair when she embraced them enthusiastically. "And these are the Muggles, yes? So tall, these Americans," she purred, clasping Booth's shoulders and going on tiptoe to press a kiss on both cheeks.

"Blink, Booth," Brennan said waspishly with a sharp elbow to his ribs.

"And you are the doctor, yes?" A cloud of sensual perfume surrounded the women when Fleur leaned in to press her cheek against Brennan's. "_Fantastique__!_ Bill and I have just returned today from visiting my parents in France and oh, the owls waiting for us! So helpful you are! _Très __bien__!"_

Arthur chose that moment to clap his hands together, calling for attention. "Let's find our seats, everyone, and not let Molly's excellent dinner get any colder!" There was a genial disorder until all the chairs were filled and Arthur, still standing at the head of the table spoke again.

"We had hoped to be able to celebrate tonight the raising of the new monument in Hogsmeade and while certain events caused a change in those plans," he said, glancing at Lily and Hugo, "we are excited nonetheless that today had the happy result of introducing us to our new friends from America. Welcome to the Burrow!" Sounds of agreement and "hear hear" echoed down the table as Arthur lifted his glass in the direction of Brennan and Booth, who nodded and smiled in return.

"As we do every year on this day," he continued, his voice dropping into a serious, quiet tone, "let us take a moment and remember those we lost during those dark days, now twenty years ago." He blinked back the sheen of moisture suddenly visible in his eyes and lifted his glass again. "Fred," he said, his voice thick with sorrow."

"Mad-Eye," Bill added, lifting his glass.

"Professor Lupin," Hermione's quiet voice spoke.

"Tonks," Ginny smiled softly.

"Dumbledore," said Ron.

"Snape." Harry's glass joined the others high above the table.

"May their memories, and those of everyone lost, live on. We shall never forget," Kingsley intoned solemnly.

Glasses were lifted higher and a beat of silence passed before Arthur cleared his throat. "Now, as our American guests might say, 'dig in!'"

With much laughter and chatter and the clinking of plates and bowls and silverware, they did. Booth and Brennan caught snippets of the conversations around them and did their best to keep up.

"So, Georgie, where's the fancy dress ear?" Bill asked, passing his brother a bowl of roast potatoes.

"Mum." George pointed to the other end of the table where Molly sat with Hugo and Lily on either side of her.

"Told you to keep the earring simple," Bill joked, tapping the dragon's fang he still wore.

"But I want butterbeer!" Hugo complained.

"You'll have pumpkin juice," Hermione insisted, shaking her head and giving Molly a severe look.

Fleur tossed her head airily at a question from Ginny, "He has proposed again," she said, "but Victorie insists she will not marry him yet. Bah!" she snorted. "I have told Teddy they are both too young for marriage. But does he listen?"

"I don't like green food, Grandmother!" Lily complained when Molly emptied a spoon of broccoli on her plate. With a twitch of her wand, the broccoli became purple and she pushed her granddaughter's plate closer. Across from her, Hugo smirked at his cousin's disgruntled expression, popping a piece from his own plate into his mouth when she eyed him angrily.

" . . . in hiding," Kingsley was saying to Arthur. "He sold fake Wolfsbane Potion to a bunch of werewolves and they're not very happy with him."

Brennan, sitting beside Hermione, raised an eyebrow. "Did he say werewolves?"

"Yes," she nodded. "We've made great strides incorporating those who want to rejoin society but stunts like this put us right back where we started." She looked seriously at Kingsley. "When Dung is found, Minister, I'm going to recommend to the Wizengamot he receive six months in Azkaban. This was more than just his usual petty thievery. If one of the werewolves hadn't had the foresight to test the potion first, Mundungus' trick could have had serious consequences. It's past time he learned a lesson."

Ron, sitting on the other side of Booth, leaned forward. "Almost makes you wish the Dementors were still there, eh?"

"So, Dr. Brennan," Molly interrupted, "tell us more about your family. Ron tells us you have four children?"

Booth and Brennan exchanged a smile. "Yes, we do. Parker is Booth's son from a previous relationship. He's starting college in the fall so he'll escape the madness," she chuckled. "Our daughter, Moira, is six and the boys, Simon and Henry, are four."

"Ah, twins," Arthur chuckled softly himself. "They drive you to distraction, don't they? There were times I wondered if Fred and George would live to be adults!"

"At least your daughter is the eldest," Ginny said. "Try being the only girl, and the youngest of seven." She shuddered.

Brennan's gaze traveled quickly over the assembled group, counting red heads. Molly noticed her gaze and smiled. "Charlie and Percy, our other sons, are out of the country. Charlie, our second oldest, is in charge of the dragon breeding program and lives in Romania. He'll be here in a few weeks when school ends at Hogwarts. His oldest is in her third year there."

"Dr...dragons?" Booth stammered.

"Yes, dear. They're attempting to cross-breed a less aggressive breed. Absolute waste of time, if you ask me," Molly huffed. "Nature will out, I always say."

Ginny interrupted before Molly could continue on what was a well-worn spiel. "Percy is the other missing brother," she explained. "His wife, Penelope, is on a teaching exchange with Durmstrang, a school in Bulgaria," she added, "and their family moved up there for a year." Her smile at Brennan and Booth was genuine. "They will both be sorry to have missed meeting you."

The math was done quickly in Brennan's head and her voice was quiet when she spoke next. "And the sixth brother, that would be Fred, the one you mentioned before dinner?" she asked, looking at Arthur. Angelina reached for George's hand where it lay on top of the table and gave it a hard squeeze.

"Fred was my twin," George answered. The tip of the rabbit's ear drooped sadly. "He was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts."

A pall hung over the table as silence fell. "I'm sorry for your loss," Brennan said sincerely. Having studied her sons' relationship and attachment to each other, she was truly saddened to hear of the demise of one of the twins. "I realize this may not be appropriate dinner conversation but I'm not familiar with that battle and it's been mentioned several times today. I'd like to find out more, when there's time."

Arthur pushed his chair back from the table with a heavy sigh. "Ah, my dear, when is it ever a good time to discuss death and destruction?" There were nods of agreement around the table; Ginny stretched an arm behind Harry and stroked his shoulders gently. "Good heavens, it all started so long ago now . . ."

Concisely, with the help of Kingsley and additional commentary from Ron and Hermione, Arthur told the story of a power-hungry madman named Tom Riddle and the lengths he went to to gain control of the wizarding world, and the steps he took to cheat death and gain immortality. Harry, whose name figured prominently throughout the tale, remained quiet, Ginny's hand still moving slowly across his back.

"So you really did save the world," Booth said to the younger man when Arthur's voice faded into silence.

"I just did what had to be done," Harry shrugged. "And I couldn't have done anything without Ron and Hermione, and everyone else who stood up to him. It wasn't all me."

Ron shook his head and nudged Booth with one shoulder. "See? Crazy bloke won't even let anyone buy him a butterbeer to say thanks."

"Speaking of free," George interrupted. "I gave the Creevey boy the box of canary creams you promised him. Almost talked my other ear off about meeting Harry."

Ron and Harry gave almost identical starts. "Creevey?" Harry asked.

"That little mite, Stanley? His surname is Creevey?" Ron asked at the same time.

"Yea, didn't you know? His father, Dennis, runs the owlrey in Diagon Alley." George responded, surprised. "Manic little midget, never shuts up. I knew his life story within five minutes of him coming into the store."

Kingsley's imposing voice silenced the rest of the conversations around the table. "Hermione, if I may ask, where do we stand with the poor fellow dug up earlier tonight?"

"Of course, sir." She sat up straighter as she addressed the minister. "Dr. Brennan was good enough to jot down her direction earlier. I created a milleportus key and sent the crate, along with Dr. Brennan's note, to Ms. Quimby in Salem before coming here. She was so good as to send a note back by the same key that she would be happy to deliver the crate tomorrow morning," Hermione finished, looked well pleased with the way events had worked out.

"I'll speak to my lab tonight, when we get back to the hotel, and let them know this is . . . a delicate situation," Brennan added. "With the skull, Angela should be able to give us a face tomorrow and it's possible someone might recognize the victim. Given the time difference and the fact that we are scheduled to leave on Saturday afternoon, I'm not sure what we'll be able to tell you before we leave."

"Ah, well," Kingsley shrugged. "We are grateful for whatever time you can spare for us, Dr. Brennan. We'll cross other bridges when we come to them."

"Speaking of Saturday," George spoke up again, "is James ready for the match?"

Harry laughed. "Is he ready? His letters home have almost been howlers, he's so excited. Finally, a chance for Gryffindor to take back the House Cup!"

"Quidditch," Hermione explained when she noticed the questioning gaze exchanged between Brennan and Booth. "The last match of the year at Hogwarts is on Saturday. It will decide the House Cup."

"What is a house cup?" Brennan asked.

"What's Quidditch?" came from Booth.

Several voices rushed all at once to explain Quidditch. Seeing the confusion grow on Booth's face as he tried to listen to the jumbled descriptions, George put his fingers to his mouth and silenced everyone with a loud whistle.

"Oy!" he said when everyone turned to stare at him. "Instead of all this noise, why don't we just show him?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Molly disagreed. "It's too late to play Quidditch. It's gone completely dark!"

"No, we can play," Ron said with enthusiasm. "We'll just conjure some light and stay close to the ground so no one from the village will see. "

"We won't be able to use the snitch, either," Harry said, disappointment obvious in his voice.

Ginny elbowed him. "You can try your hand at Chasing," she winked at him.

George took over the planning with authority. "Three man teams," he decided. "Ginny, it's only fair you play out of position and Keep for one side. Ron, you Keep for the other. Harry, Angelina, you're the Chasers. Bill, how about it? Want to try your hand at Beating for old time's sake?"

"I'm not Charlie but I can hold my own," Bill grinned, standing up. "All right, you lot, let's clear dinner away and get started!"

"Oh, honestly," Molly huffed. "Do try not to break any bones this time. If you do, I swear I'll put you in Ron's old room beneath the ghoul while you mend!"

Bill hugged his mother and laughed. "Mum, the only brooms we have are those old Cleansweeps in the broom shed. We'll probably have to walk them along the ground anyway!"

Thirty minutes later, the entire group had gathered in the clearing in the orchard to watch the friendly game that, hampered as it was by the necessary adjustments to the rules, was nonetheless being played with ferocious intensity. Kingsley Shacklebolt acted as impartial scorekeeper while Arthur stood between Booth and Brennan and explained the rules and the differences in a real match and the version being played in front of them. Beside them, Lily and Hugo whooped and shouted and clapped as the game progressed.

The participants were careful to stay barely 20 feet above the ground but even so, it was a fast-paced and obviously somewhat dangerous game. A mass groan rose from the sidelines when a bludger hit by Bill caught Ginny in the stomach. She doubled over with a whoof! and the quaffle sailed unimpeded through the hoop she guarded, Harry having scored the winning goal.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Booth asked Arthur.

"A bit, yes," he nodded, cheering loudly . "But there are rarely any serious injuries. Mostly broken limbs, the occasional cracked skull. Nothing too horrible."

"We can never let the boys know about this," Brennan murmured to her husband.

"I don't know," he answered, fascinated eyes tracking the action. "It looks like a lot of fun!"

Arthur chuckled knowingly. "Careful, son. Once the Quidditch bug bites, it never lets go!"

"Besides," Ron panted as the rest of the team landed easily among the spectators, "Muggles can't play Quidditch. Stick to that funny shaped ball you Americans play with, mate. You'd just get yourself killed playing with us," he added with a smirk.

"I could beat you," Booth answered, chest puffing out, his competitive nature rising to the bait. "Get me one of those things," he said, pointing to Ron's broom, "and we'll see."

"Booth . . ." Brennan began.

"You can't ride a broom, old man," Ron laughed. "They won't respond to a Muggle."

"So I'll ride with someone. I'll show you old man, kid." He flexed his shoulders instinctively.

"Booth . . ."

"I don't know about you, Bill, but I sense an occasion for a friendly wager." George ignored the daggers being thrown at him through the eyes of both Hermione and Brennan. "Only fair if Ron rides pillion, too, don't you think?"

"Hmmm," Bill answered, considering both men. "I'll take the Yank, to even out the weight a bit, if you'll take Ron."

"Deal." The two brothers shook hands as Hermione spluttered. "But," George continued, "these old Cleansweeps won't do, of course. That one barely held me. Harry . . ."

"Oh, no," Bill interrupted. "You're not riding a Firebolt DX while I'm stuck with my old broom. Nice try."

George smiled with no remorse then snapped his fingers. "How about I borrow a couple of Nimbus 8K from Dusty Brooms? I'm friendly with the owner, he'd be keen for this."

"Done."

"What are you thinking?" Brennan tugged Booth around to face her. "This is a ridiculous display of testosterone driven machismo. This is an unnecessary effort on your part to prove your superior virility and strength in front of a younger man."

"Are you insane?" Hermione yelled at Ron. "What if he falls off? Or gets hit in the head by a bludger? You'll get him killed!"

"Obviously the women-folk hate the idea," George said loudly, interrupting the ongoing argument between both sets of spouses. "So that settles it . . . game on, mates!"

.

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><p><em>See that button that says "Review This Chapter"? It's a nice button. Click it and show me some love. :-)<em>


	7. Chapter 7

Brennan rounded on Booth the moment Hermione disappeared after returning them to their hotel room. "You can't seriously be considering this challenge, Booth." His answering smile indicated that not only was he 'seriously considering' the game, he was looking forward to it.

"There's nothing to worry about, Bones. I've played rougher sports," he added in an attempt to calm her fears.

"Not 50 feet in the air!"

He shrugged. "They won't let me fall. Relax."

"Won't let you . . ." she stared at him, open-mouthed. The beep of her phone interrupted whatever response she might have made. "Angela wants to know if we're available for a video link. We will revisit this subject, Booth," she warned as she opened her laptop and connected.

"Hi, Mommy!" Three dark heads crowded together, fighting for space in front of the laptop camera. "Daddy!" The shouts were louder when he sat down beside her.

"Woa!" Booth exclaimed when he got a good look at the two little boys who, but for the fact that one pair of eyes was blue and the other brown, stared back at him from identical faces. Faint shadows of multicolored paint could still be seen decorating their cheeks and in Simon's case, the tips of his dark hair.

"We painted our faces like Mommy's Icky masks," Henry boasted proudly.

"Inca masks," Moira corrected, rolling her eyes.

"Don't worry," Angela's voice called out from somewhere nearby. "It will eventually wear off."

"Sam's was the best!" Simon disappeared from the screen yelling for the other boy. In minutes he was back, pushing Moira and Henry out of the way as he pulled Angela and Jack's youngest son into the frame. "Look! Can I do this for Halloween?"

"No," Booth and Brennan said together as they got a look at the varied stripes of color covering his face. Immediately, Henry rejoined the other two at the laptop and all three boys began complaining and whining loudly. The pushing and shoving continued as everyone jockeyed for position.

"Stop pushing, Henry!" Moira determinedly elbowed her way closer.

"Ouch! You stepped on my foot!"

"Dad, we want to paint our faces!"

"You pushed me first!"

"STOP!" Even from across an ocean, Booth's stern voice had all four children, including the one who didn't belong to him, immediately freezing in place. Brennan closed her eyes and massaged her temples with the pads of her fingers. "Simon, we'll discuss face painting when your mother and I get home. Henry, stop pushing. Mo, don't punch your brother. Sam . . . maybe you could back up just for a minute, okay kiddo? Where's Parker?"

The top of Moira's head was visible just behind the boys. "He went to his mom's house. He said all these boys were driving him crazy." She crowded her way into the frame.

Simon turned accusing blue eyes on his sister. "No, he didn't," he retorted. "He said 'all these kids' were driving him crazy. That means you, too!"

The little girl tossed her long brown hair with an audible sniff. "There are five of you and only one of me so clearly he was only talking about you," she said, mimicking perfectly the same tone her mother might use addressing an intern who'd made a mistake.

"Dad, she was the one following him around all the time!" Henry jumped in to defend his brother.

"That's because he's a grownup and you're such a child!" Moira answered, looking even more like Brennan as she lifted her chin stubbornly.

Henry gave her a light shove. "You're a kid, too!"

Booth looked at Brennan. "Let's just not go back," he murmured.

"I heard that!" Angela sang out. "Don't even think about it!"

Brennan looked directly into the camera and began reciting the bones of the human body, starting with the hand. "Distal phalanges, intermediate phalanges, proximal phalanges, metacarpals . . ."

Simon's eyes widened and he waved frantically at his siblings. "Mom's listing bones, stop!"

". . . trapezium, trapezoid, capitate . . ."

"She's at the carpals!" he said in a louder voice when his twin and sister continued their shoving match. At the word 'carpels,' both children stopped and faced the screen.

"Sorry, Mom."

"We're not fighting now."

Booth sat back, crossed his arms across his chest and smiled.

"Your father and I will be back in a couple of days. I expect all three of you to be on your best behavior for Aunt Angela until then," she said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am," three voices chirped.

"Simon, Henry, you two should also help Sam remove the rest of the paint from his face."

"We did our chests, too!" Henry piped up.

Fortunately, the microphone did not pick up the curse Booth muttered beneath his breath.

A curly head appeared in the side of the screen. "It wasn't our fault," Michael Hodgins said, without preamble. "Will and I told them to paint on the paper."

"All right, all right," Angela interrupted. "Any kid not named Booth, move away from the laptop." There was a general reshuffling, in the middle of which another set of dark smiling eyes popped in.

"Hi, Aunt Tempe!"

"William!" Angela scolded lightly, and he disappeared.

Left alone, the three Booth children sat close together and stared into the laptop's camera. Smaller, blended versions of their parents, Moira had Booth's dark eyes and her mother's wide jawline while only Brennan's pale blue eyes twinkling out of Simon's face distinguished one twin from the other. Out of sight of the camera, Brennan squeezed Booth's hand. "I've missed you all very much," she said, and felt her heart catch when all three grinned back at her with the same smile their father still used to great effect.

"So," Moira said with an attempt at great casualness, "what are you bringing us?" Booth laughed with gusto.

"Good try, Mo," he responded. "But we're still not telling. It's a surprise," he added, laughing again when she pouted.

After several more minutes talking about Moira's day at school and the new species of spider Hodgins had introduced the boys to, the children were bored sitting at the laptop and ran off to the playroom, leaving it open for Angela.

"You know it's weird that four-year olds can name the bones of the human hand, right?" she said as she sat down.

"It's a more educational approach than simply counting to ten," Brennan countered. Angela rolled her eyes and laughed. "I'm sorry about the paint," she continued. "When you said they'd painted each others faces I didn't realize they had done such a thorough job."

Angela waved off her words. "Oh, don't worry, it will wear off eventually," she shrugged. "And we've been meaning to repaint the playroom anyway."

"I'm not going to ask," Booth said seriously, shaking his head.

"Well, anyway," Brennan said, "I'm glad we connected tonight. Someone will be delivering remains to the lab tomorrow morning, including the cranium and mandible. Do you think you can find time to do a facial reconstruction?"

"Sure," Angela nodded. "I'll take the young ones to the daycare while the older ones are in school. Once I get the markers done, I can work at home if I need to. I didn't know we'd picked up a new case."

Brennan and Booth exchanged a glance. "This is a . . . special request," Brennan answered finally. "There are also samples from soil at the burial site which I'd like Hodgins to analyze. I'd like as much information as possible while we're still here, so please ask him to make those samples a priority."

"You know," Angela smirked, "when we talked about bringing home souvenirs, a dead body wasn't really what I had in mind."

Booth huffed and sat back, his arms folded. "Yea, just once I'd like to come to England and not get dragged into a murder investigation."

Eyes narrowed, Brennan stared at him. "If you die tomorrow, you won't have to worry about this investigation, will you?"

"Wait, what? Who's dying?" Angela leaned closer to the laptop screen.

"Nobody's dying," Booth shook his head. "I'm just going to play a little game . . ."

"This is not a 'little game,' Booth," his wife insisted. "It is obviously extremely dangerous and you do not have the same abilities . . ."

"Did you sign up for a rugby match or something?" Angela asked, curious. "Because if so, I think Brennan is right. That can get pretty rough and you're not as young as you used to be, G-man."

Booth glared at Angela through the camera. "Why does everyone suddenly think I'm old? I'm still in the prime of my life, thank you very much!"

"This has nothing to do with your age, Booth," Brennan insisted, "although it is completely normal for a man approaching the age of 50 to lose muscle mass and notice a slowing of his reflexes and a general weakening of his physical prowess."

"I'd listen to her, Booth," Angela nodded. "Rugby is pretty dangerous. She's just trying to take care of you."

"I'm not playing rugby and if you don't mind, I think I'll wait a few years before I retire to a rocking chair on the front porch!" Booth eyed both of them with irritation.

"We don't have a rocking chair on the front porch. Did you mean the swing?" Brennan asked curiously.

"No . . . never mind," Booth said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can we just get back to the body?"

"Sure," Angela responded, clearing her throat to cover a chuckle. "Remains delivered tomorrow, facial reconstruction, soil samples. Got it. I'll call Cam when we finish up and let her know to expect the delivery."

"Is there anything else happening at the lab I should know about?" Brennan asked.

"No, it's been quiet. Clark finished the last of your WWI unknowns so you'll have to sign off on that when you get back. And the kids have had a great time."

"They look like human paintbrushes, Angela."

"Oh, you know," she waved her hand airily, "kids will be kids." She smiled and leaned in closer. "So what are you bringing me?"

Brennan's husky laughter had Booth's eyes fixing on her, a faint smile forming on his lips. "That's a surprise, too," she answered. "Thanks for everything, Ange," she added as they said their goodbyes. "Oh, and be sure to send me a copy of the reconstruction as soon as you have it!"

Laptop closed, Brennan sighed heavily before leaning down to slide her shoes off. "I don't like to reinforce gender stereotypes but why is it always the boys who are involved in these situations and not Moira?"

"Because there's two of them and they egg each other on," Booth answered. "And," he flashed that smile, "they're the Booth boys. Just wait." He eyed his wife speculatively when, stretching into a yawn, she stood, twisting her shoulders and back sinuously. Before she knew what was happening, he stuck a broad shoulder into her midriff and lifted her easily over one arm.

"So my physical prowess is weakening in my old age, huh?" he said over her laughter, heading toward the separate bedroom.

Hanging helplessly over his shoulder, Brennan slapped at his back. "Put me down, Booth! You'll hurt your back again!"

"That's okay, I know someone who thinks she's a chiropractor," he said, and kicked the door closed behind them.

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><p><em>"Ain't too proud to beg . . ." for reviews. :-D<br>_


	8. Chapter 8

Brennan continued her arguments over breakfast the next morning in an ongoing attempt to dissuade Booth from taking part in the Quidditch match.

His attempts to reassure her failed miserably.

His efforts to change the subject met the same fate.

Finally, he simply covered his ears and began singing.

She kept arguing, loudly.

He closed his eyes and sang louder.

When she heard the opening verse to a Barry Manilow song, Brennan gave up.

"All right!" she winced. "If I stop asking you to reconsider, will you stop singing?"

"That hurts, Bones," he said, pouting dramatically.

She opened her mouth to make a caustic retort comparing bleeding eardrums with broken bones but, noticing his narrowed eyes, bit back the words, her teeth clicking together sharply as her mouth snapped shut.

Oddly, the clicking continued. The two of them exchanged a puzzled glance and looked around the room curiously. Brennan picked up the silver cover from a warming dish on the table, examined the inside and replaced it gently.

Peering toward one of the large windows overlooking Hyde Park, Booth paused. "Uh...Bones? There's an owl outside the window."

"What?" Standing next to him, she stared at the bird tapping its beak against the broad window. "That . . . can't be. That's a Great Horned Owl. It's native to North America. It doesn't live in Europe."

"Maybe he's lost," Booth joked. The bird's large eyes fixed on the couple. It blinked once and clicked harder against the glass. "What is . . ." he leaned forward, peering intently. "There's a roll of paper tied to his leg." The feathered head dipped, as if in agreement. "Do you think I should try to get it off?" Booth's step toward the window was halted by Brennan's hand on his arm.

"No!" she said. "Great Horned Owls can be carriers of rabies. It's not safe."

"He's got a scroll attached to his leg, Bones," Booth pointed out. "Unless he tied it himself, whoever put it there wasn't worried about rabies." The owl's great wings spread wide; it hooted once and clicked again on the glass.

"But this . . . this isn't right." Brennan shook her head. "This owl should not be here. This is . . . wrong."

Booth paused, his hand on the window, and looked back at her. "Out of everything we saw yesterday, an owl who thinks he's a carrier pigeon is what bothers you?" With a chuckle, he flipped the latch.

The owl soared into the room, gliding over to perch gracefully on the back of the chair Booth had vacated earlier.

They stood open-mouthed, staring at the majestic bird. The owl waited, head tilted, staring back. Finally, it hooted once and lifted the leg on which the rolled paper was attached.

"I think he wants us to take the scroll," Booth murmured out of the side of his mouth. He crept closer, moving slowly, hand outstretched. "Good bird," he crooned softly. "You don't want to bite the nice man, right?" Booth withdrew quickly when the owl's beak clicked again as he reached out to untie the message. One soft hoot came as the bird balanced on both feet momentarily before lifting his leg a second time, shaking the scroll in Booth's direction. "Okay, okay, let's try again," he said. This time he ignored the clicking of the beak and worked quickly to untie and remove the paper. Straightening it, he glanced down.

"It's for you," he said, holding it out for Brennan.

"What?" She looked at the paper as if she expected to see it burst into flames.

"It's addressed to you." Booth waved it in her direction.

"A Great Horned Owl flew to the window of our hotel room, in London, with a note strapped to his leg addressed to me?"

He nodded and grinned broadly. "And that's not even the weirdest thing that's happened to us this week."

Speechless, Brennan reached out. "It's parchment." Her expression reflected her surprise. "Real parchment." She shook her head and began to read.

_"Good morning Dr. Brennan,_

_I hope this note finds you and your husband enjoying a quiet breakfast. It looks to be a lovely day. _

_Since you mentioned last night that it would be several hours before you would hear from your laboratory in Washington, D.C., I wondered if you would allow me to entertain you for the day? It would be my pleasure to guide you around Hogsmeade. One of my former professors will also be spending the weekend in the village and has agreed to meet with you, if you would like, to discuss the history of the Wizarding community. I believe you will find Professor McGonagall able to answer any questions you might have. _

_Your husband is welcome to join us, of course. Alternately, Ron and Harry have offered to give him a tour of the public areas of the Ministry of Magic. Harry is Head of the Auror Office and as such, is charged with protecting our community from those wizards who pose the most dangerous threat to our existence. Given your husband's career in law enforcement, that might prove interesting to him. _

_We could meet again as a group for afternoon tea. _

_If you agree to these small suggestions, we will come to your hotel at 10:00 a.m. and transport you both from there. Apollo has been instructed to wait for your reply, if you would be so kind as to return it with him. _

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger-Weasley_

"Apollo?" Booth asked. The owl hooted loudly and spread his wings wide. "You're Apollo?" he addressed the bird directly, not surprised when the he clicked his beak and lowered his head once. "Of course you're Apollo." He looked at Brennan. "The mailman's name is Apollo."

"But owls were never used as homing pigeons. They're nocturnal . . . and they're predators . . . this species isn't indigenous to Great Britain . . . I don't understand . . ." Apollo ruffled his feathers and repositioned himself on his perch, staring back at Brennan with unblinking, round eyes.

"Honey, let it go," Booth advised. His hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward the door to their bedroom. "I'll write the note back to Hermione. You get dressed." He gave her a little push.

"But this isn't right, Booth. How did that bird know where to find us? Homing pigeons were normally only able to fly back to their base. Yes, sometimes they could be trained to fly between two very specific locations but how was he able to come directly to our window?" Her steps slow, Brennan cast her muttered words over her shoulder. "Owls are very intelligent birds, perhaps . . ."

"Let it go, Bones." A hand against her lower back, Booth walked with her to the door dividing the two rooms.

"But Booth . . ."

"Let it go." Apollo clicked his beak impatiently, hooting loudly. "I'll answer the letter, you get dressed." Booth kissed the lines of confusion on her forehead, chuckling silently. "When Hermione gets here, you can talk to her about owls and carrier pigeons, okay?"

"Yes, I think I will," she answered, turning to stare back at the bird. "It's not right, Booth . . ."

"I know, baby, I know." Biting back his smile, he gave her one last gentle shove and closed the bedroom door. From the other side, he could still hear her.

"_Great Horned Owls are not native to this part of the world . . ."_

"Figures," Booth addressed the owl directly as he walked to the small desk in the room. "She finally blows a gasket over something she can't explain and I'll never be able to tell anyone." Apollo hooted loudly, stretching his wings to their full width. "Thanks for nothing, pal."

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><p><em>Unfortunately, you can't send an owl with your review. You have to click the button. <em>


	9. Chapter 9

"The Great Horned Owl is not native to the British Isles."

Hermione blinked at Brennan's rather abrupt greeting, glancing at Ron uncertainly. "Erm . . . no, it isn't."

"But that was a Great Horned Owl who delivered your note," she continued as if daring Hermione to disagree.

"Yes it was."

"Bones . . ." She froze her husband in place with a glare.

"He did not fly here from North America." She resumed questioning the young witch as if the interruption hadn't happened.

"No." Head tilted, Hermione regarded Brennan curiously.

"So where did he come from?"

"Originally or before he delivered my letter to you?"

Brennan paused. "Both."

"We purchased him four years ago from Eeylops, in Diagon Alley." Hermione explained. "But he came to you directly from our home, where he lives."

"You keep an owl as a pet?"

"Well, no," Hermione shook her head. "Apollo isn't a pet exactly. He's for the mail, you see."

"You purchased an owl for the purpose of delivering your mail?"

"She didn't seem this dense last night, did she?" Ron murmured in a quiet aside to Harry.

"Yes. After Pig died."

"You also have pigs delivering mail?" Brennan was stuck somewhere between fascinated and appalled.

Seeing Booth's narrowed eyes, Ron quickly turned his snicker into a cough.

"No, Pig was the owl's name," he spoke up, avoiding the other man's gaze. "Well, Pigwidgeon really, but who would call an owl Pigwidgeon?"

"Yea, calling an owl Pig makes a lot more sense," Booth inserted sarcastically.

Ron shrugged. "I agree with you, mate. Blame my sister."

Hermione hurried to interrupt what looked to be another round of scathing comments tossed back and forth between Ron and Booth. "There's a wizards post office in Hogsmeade, Dr. Brennan, with all sorts of different owls. We'll make sure to stop in so you can see it all for yourself and have a chat with the owner. He can explain how owls came to be used for the mail, if you'd like."

"Yes," the anthropologist answered with a lift of her chin. "That would be a very good idea."

Hermione offered her arm. "If you're ready, then . . ."

"Wait!" Booth grabbed for Brennan's arm and leveled a direct look at the witch. "She'll be okay? She's safe with you?"

"Yes," Hermione answered seriously, speaking over the other woman's huff of irritation. "She will be completely safe with me."

"I'm the one who should be asking that question," Brennan interrupted, turning on Ron and Harry. "How do I know you two aren't sneaking off to teach Booth how to fly a broom so he can play this . . . this ridiculous game?"

"He wouldn't be able to ride a broom alone even if we . . ." Ron's voice tailed off when Brennan's eyes locked on his. "Right. No brooms."

Harry restrained his smile. "Not only no brooms, Dr. Brennan, but we'll also be using conventional Muggle transportation to get to the Ministry." She raised a brow. "We have to take him in through the visitor's entrance," he explained. His open, honest face seemed to reassure her.

Booth pulled his wife close and kissed her hard. "Keep your cell phone with you," he advised, "and call me if you need me."

"Right then," Ron chirped, holding the door of the suite open. "Off we go now!"

"Ron . . ." Hermione's voice held a warning note.

"No worries, Hermy-my-own," he grinned. "You have my word we'll bring the Muggle back in one piece."

"One HUMAN piece," Hermione insisted.

Ron glanced at Harry and shrugged. "One human piece," he agreed before he and Harry escorted Booth out into the hallway, shutting the door behind them with a firm click.

The two women stood in silence for a heartbeat.

"He will be safe, won't he?" Brennan asked finally, seeking a final moment of reassurance.

Hermione sighed. "Seeing as Harry is with them, yes. Mind you," she added, holding out her arm for Brennan to grasp, "I wouldn't trust yours and mine all alone." Her playful smile melted the last of Brennan's apprehension. "They'd have entirely too much fun together."

With a quiet pop, the two women disappeared.

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><p><em>I'm shocked and appalled that neither Brennan nor Hermione trust their men to behave. Shocked and appalled, I tell you. Really, what kind of trouble could they get into? hehehe<br>_


	10. Chapter 10

Brennan's questions about owls were soon pushed far to the back of her mind. It wasn't that she forgot, exactly, it was that once in Hogsmeade there was so much more to learn, so many other questions to ask that soon the use of owls to carry the mail seemed to fit perfectly with everything else she saw.

Hermione remembered her promise to accompany Brennan into every shop she wished to enter, and Brennan wished to enter every shop.

Some visits were quick and short. The hair salon, for instance, was like every other salon . . . except for the fact that the scissors cutting away and creating fantastic new 'dos were working by themselves. A pudgy little witch with a towering head full of curls that wouldn't have looked out of place on Marie Antoinette offered to "have a go at a few snips" for Brennan - on the house. The anthropologist politely declined and left the shop running a hand over her own smooth chestnut tresses, just to make sure she hadn't accidentally had a haircut.

The music shop was inspected on a similarly brief visit. Quiet before they entered, no sooner had the two women stepped over the threshold into the brightly lit interior than every instrument in the room began to play in a crescendo of sound. Invisible hands plucked the strings of a large ornate harp. The bow of a violin slid smoothly across the beautifully polished dark red instrument. Several pianofortes ran scales and played in harmony with each other. The fussy proprietor, a thin little man with a mustache that curled back on itself in a design of incredible complexity, bowed worshipfully over Hermione's hand for several minutes until finally, they made their escape.

Brennan was slightly more interested in Gladrags Wizardwear, where a multicolored array of cloaks and robes lined the walls, but more impressed with the workroom in the back of the store. Cotton and wool fed themselves into large looms which clicked and clacked, creating bolts of cloth of various colors and patterns. In one corner a colony of silkworms crawled across a live mulberry tree, diligently producing dozens of frothy white cocoons which fell into baskets at the base of the tree. The four witches at work in the room stopped when Gladys, the proprietor, followed Brennan and Hermione through the door. After introductions were made, the youngest returned to her earlier task, watched carefully by the two visitors. With a wave of her wand, a length of black wool stretched wide in front of her; another casual flick and a tape measure spanned the breadth of the cloth while a pair of scissors clipped away. Brennan smothered a smile at one point when the scissors, having veered slightly to the right, were snapped sharply by the tape measure until they lined up correctly again.

In the bookstore, Brennan almost forgot Hermione was there. Hermione, known to lose herself among books as well, understood and the two women cemented their new friendship over the dusty volumes they pulled from the shelves.

"I would like to purchase this book," Brennan said, holding up a dingy copy of _The__ Magical__ Truth__ Behind__ Muggle__ Science_. "Does this establishment take American Express?"

"Erm, no," Hermione answered, biting back a smile.

Brennan thumbed through the pages of the book. "Then I will require an ATM machine. Is there one nearby?" She studied the words on one page. "This book says that it was a wizard, Bertrand Adelbert, who taught Benjamin Franklin about electricity."

Hermione nodded. "Yes. I think you'll find that wizards were often behind many Muggle inventions."

"And it says here," Brennan continued, looking further into the book, "that a witch by the name of Wilhelmina Strassebenz helped her brother-in-law, a Squib who took the name of Karl Benz, with the combustion engine which led to the invention of the motor car."

"And none too soon," a portly witch browsing nearby commented. "All those horses - my grandmother told such stories! You could smell the Muggle villages for miles around!"

Hermione wrinkled her nose as if the smell was fresh.

Brennan lowered her voice. "But if wizards know all of these things, why don't they use technology? Why is this village, the home we were in last night, why are they all perfect examples of 19th century living?"

"We don't need those things," Hermione answered simply. "We have magic. You don't."

Brennan looked at the book she held, considering. "But with your abilities and the use of modern technology you could . . ."

"Rule the world?" Hermione asked, a slight smile playing across her face. "That never ends well, does it?"

"Change the world," Brennan corrected. "The word I had in mind was change."

"But for the better?" the witch responded, her tone serious. "Whose to say that the whole world knowing about a relatively small population of people with magical abilities would be a good thing? How soon would it be before we would be subjugated, taken advantage of, our powers used for ill in a world that doesn't always make the right choices? No," she shook her head, "there's a reason we keep ourselves separate from the Muggle world. In the end, both sides are better for it."

Brennan reflected for a few minutes before nodding. "Your conclusions are valid. I accept your position."

They browsed the bookstore for several minutes longer until Hermione, after receiving assurances from Brennan that it would be kept safely away from curious eyes, made a gift of the book to the anthropologist. "My way of saying thank you for your help," she insisted until graciously, Brennan accepted.

The next stop on the tour, the herbology shop Dogweed & Deathcap, was equally as fascinating. Brennan lifted lids and examined jars, comparing the ingredients and their uses to the herbal remedies used in earlier civilizations she'd studied. She paused, fascinated, staring at a long twisting silver horn for several minutes before reaching out to touch it with gentle fingertips. "Unicorn," she breathed, unaware she spoke out loud. When she turned to Hermione, her eyes glistened. "How could anyone . . ."

"The horns are very rare," the witch agreed. "They're usually recovered only when the animal is found dead in the forest."

Brennan wiped away a tear. "So they aren't killed for their horns?"

"Well, we do have occasional problems with poaching," Hermione admitted. "But it's rare because it's an awful thing to do, to kill a unicorn. If Hagrid finds evidence of such an occurrence, he immediately notifies me, or Harry. Only a dark wizard would do such a thing."

Brennan sniffed. "I'm sorry," she rolled her eyes irritably. "I'm usually very unemotional, unless I'm pregnant." A horrified look crossed her face for a fraction of an instant before she shook her head. "No, it's not possible."

Hermione chuckled and patted the other woman's arm sympathetically. "It's not you, Dr. Brennan. Unicorns have a special magic that connects most especially with females. Especially females who are 'pure of heart.' " She smiled gently. "It says something wonderful about you that you were so touched by the unicorn's horn."

"Oh, I am not a virgin," Brennan said, shaking her head. "I have three children but even before Booth and I became involved I had a wide variety of sexual . . ."

Hermione held up one hand hand, laughing. "No, Dr. Brennan, pure of heart. The truth of one's heart has nothing to do with . . ." she smothered another chuckle. "Let's just move along, shall we?"

Outside the herbology shop the two women stood for a few minutes discussing their next move. Suddenly a wide smile crossed Hermione's face and she took a few happy steps forward.

"Professor McGonagall!" she said, reaching out to grasp the older woman's hand and draw her closer. "Dr. Brennan, I would like to introduce you to one of my former teachers and a past headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall."

Temperance Brennan could count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of times she had felt awestruck upon meeting someone new. Standing in the presence of Minerva McGonagall, however, awestruck was the word that immediately came to mind. Power hummed from the tall, slim witch and the stern expression she wore seemed engraved on her lined visage. Beneath her hat, however, her green eyes twinkled, reflecting the deep shade of the velvet robes she wore and her smile was warm, if somewhat reserved as she offered her hand in response to Hermione's introduction.

"The Minister has told me all about your work, Dr. Brennan," she said. "I hope you've been given the assistance you require?"

"Yes," Brennan answered, "everyone has been quite helpful."

"I've been giving Dr. Brennan a tour of Hogsmeade, Professor. We've just come from Dogweed & Deathcap."

"Yes, well, I'd stay away from Scrivenshaft's," the professor said with a testy shrug of her shoulders. "I've just been there and the new supply of quills is very poor quality. Honestly," she tutted, "I believe they've hired trolls for their workshop now!"

Hermione made sympathetic noises then asked, "Perhaps now would be a good time to take a short break? I thought, perhaps, Madame Puddifoot's . . ."

"Good heavens no, child," McGonagall shook her head. "All those scented candles and that awful simpering music she insists on playing! That place quite makes my head hurt. "No," she continued, heading down the walk, "let's pay a visit to Rosmerta. A good honest pub is just what I need."

Sharing a grin, the two younger women hurried to catch up.

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"Minerva! So nice to see you again!" Rosmerta kissed the older witch on both cheeks. "And Hermione, always a pleasure." The young witch received the same kissing welcome before the pub's proprietor stepped back, looking curiously at Brennan.

"Erm . . . Dr. Brennan, Madam Rosmerta, the owner of the Three Broomsticks. Dr. Brennan is . . ."

"Oh yes, the Muggle," Rosmerta interrupted. "The Minister has been singing your praises." Turning away from the women, she surveyed the room. "Oy, you lot," she said, addressing a table of four scruffy looking wizards. "Clear off! I need the table."

"Here now," one dirty fellow argued. "You can't just . . ."

"The hell I can't," she said, her tone biting. "You've been nursing that same pint for the last hour! Don't you recognize Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Weasley? Shame on you! If it weren't for them and the rest up at Hogwarts, you'd all have tattoos on your arm right now! If you don't already," she added, her eyes narrowing as she glared at them, hands on her hips.

"No call to be nasty," he grumbled as the group left the table. "We're going. Ladies," he added, doffing his hat in an attempt at groveling politeness as they filed past the three waiting women. Rosmerta flicked her wand toward the corner and stepped back as a broom and bin rushed over, followed by a bright white towel that quickly wiped down the table.

"No respect," Rosmerta huffed, watching the cleanup. "Folks are starting to get a mite too comfortable, forgetting what it was like back when You Know...back when Voldemort was in power."

"Ah well, that's the way of things," McGonagall murmured, patting Rosmerta's arm. "Once the danger is past, we all tend to get comfortable."

"Mad-Eye had it right, though, didn't he? Constant vigilance." The two witches shared a look. "Times like this, when everyone is comfortable, that's when the seeds are sown." Rosmerta sighed heavily and shook off her malaise. "Well, at least we have Harry watching out for us," she said cheerfully, gesturing the ladies to their now clean table. "How is he, Hermione? And your Ron?"

"Both fine, I'll tell them you asked about them," Hermione answered, settling into a seat. "They're with Dr. Brennan's husband, at the Ministry."

"Ah, wonderful," their hostess responded. "Now, what can I bring you ladies? Uh uh uh," she wagged her finger at Hermione when the younger witch opened her bag. "Your galleons are no good here, girl, I've told you."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione smiled, "thank you. Dr. Brennan and I will each have butterbeers, please."

"And I'll have a nice sharp red currant rum, if you please, Rosmerta," McGonagall added.

"Certainly." Hermione watched her totter away on the high heels she favored before abruptly turning back to the table with a loud groan.

"What is it, dear?" McGonagall asked in concern.

Hermione tipped her head toward the door. "Rita." She leaned in toward Brennan. "If she comes over here, don't . . ."

"Well, hello! How wonderful to see such a charming gathering, here in little Hogsmeade!" The newcomer wore a broad, fake smile, her eyes glittering inquisitively as she surveyed the women.

"Go away," Hermione said abruptly, standing up quickly.

"Really, Ms. Weasley," Rita tutted, her expression simpering. "Isn't it time we let bygones be bygones, that we . . ."

"Bury the hatchet? I'd love to," Hermione agreed grimly, pulling her wand. "Just let me get one."

Rita laugh was loud and false. Her curls, dyed a horrendous shade of orange and piled haphazardly on top of her head, shook slightly when she reached a talon like hand toward Brennan. "I'm Rita Skeeter, correspondent for the Daily Prophet. And you are?"

"None of your business," Hermione responded sharply. Brennan eyed the grasping hand distastefully before crossing her arms over her chest, leaning back from the table. "You aren't welcome here, Rita. Leave."

"Really, Hermione." Rita dropped the air of phony friendliness and glared back. "Our little unpleasantness was so long ago, isn't it time you dropped it?"

"Your article last week sent one of my employees home in tears," Hermione responded harshly.

"What, that little piece? I'm sure I don't know . . ."

"You said she was little more intelligent than a mentally handicapped troll and compared her looks to a hag with boils."

"Well she does have that unfortunate complexion . . ."

Hermione leaned in close to Rita. "If you print one more column attacking one of my employees I will personally see that your little secret is made public."

Rita gasped and drew back, lifting her chin defiantly. "Perhaps it's time I went to the registry myself and took that little weapon away from you. I'm tired of being threatened with . . ."

"Please do," Hermione smiled, her teeth bared. "I think a six-month stint in Azkaban would do wonders for your personality."

Rita's mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled for words. Finally, she squared her shoulders and huffed. "I can see this is a bad time for an interview. I'll just . . . I'll just . . . well. Goodbye." She turned and stalked away from the table, casting one last venom filled glance toward them before stepping outside the tavern.

"Was that wise, dear?" McGonagall asked as Hermione took her seat again. "I know there's no love lost between the two of you but . . ."

"She's foul," Hermione said bitterly, over Rosmerta's return with their drinks. "She's cruel and vindictive. I don't know why the Prophet continues to employ her."

"Well, she's sleeping with the editor," McGonagall said, taking a dainty sip of ruby red liquid.

Hermione choked on the sip she'd just taken. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, yes," her former professor nodded. "I'm surprised you don't know. It's common knowledge."

Brennan smiled and sipped again from her glass. "I'm glad to see our worlds have some things in common."

"Men are men, be they wizards or Muggles," McGonagall said wisely. "All of them are too easily led astray by a pair of shapely legs."

The three women touched glasses in a silent toast to the weakness of the male sex.

"Professor McGonagall, I wondered if you would mind answering some of Dr. Brennan's questions about the wizarding community. Our history and so forth," Hermione said to the older woman.

"I'm certainly happy to share what I can," she agreed, "but if it's history you want, perhaps we should speak to Professor Binns. He's still teaching at Hogwarts, you know."

"Erm . . . no, I don't think that's a good idea," Hermione hesitated, casting a glance at Brennan.

"If he's an expert on your community's history, I would certainly like to meet him," she said.

"Well, you see," Hermione bit her lip. "He's a ghost," she continued in a rush.

Brennan stared at her, speechless. A long moment passed, then she turned to Professor McGonagall. "I'm sure you'll be able to answer any questions I have."

"I'll certainly do my best, dear," the teacher replied with a smile.

"I'm familiar with several different cultures and their beliefs about the supernatural. For instance, here in Britain and the legend of Merlin . . ."

"Oh, Merlin," McGonagall huffed, sitting back. "That man's ability to promote himself continues to cause problems for us, even today."

Brennan shook her head in confusion. "Merlin was real?"

"Of course," the elder professor said, sipping at her drink. "He was among the first students taught at Hogwarts. He was in Slytherin house, actually."

"In Slytherin?" Hermione asked, her voice raised in shock.

"Yes, Slytherin." McGonagall smiled. "Not all great wizards came from Gryffindor, you know."

"Well I knew that but . . ."

Hermione was interrupted when a small, silver dragon glided to their table and spoke in a deep voice.

"_Bes' get ta the Leaky Cauldron on the quick, Hermione. Ron's gettin' ready to duel wi' that Muggle."_

"What?" Confused, Brennan looked into Hermione's shocked face as the silver dragon disappeared. "What was . . . who was that?"

"That was Hagrid," Hermione answered in a whisper.

"Duel?" Brennan stood up quickly, almost knocking her chair over. "Where did they get swords?"

"Swords?" Hermione shook her head. "No, we duel with wands. But, " her hand covered her mouth in horror, "your husband can't use a wand. What if . . .I'm sorry, Professor," she said hurriedly, grabbing Brennan's hand. "We have to . . ."

"Yes, by all means," McGonagall waved. "Go and save your menfolk from themselves. Hurry!"

In the blink of an eye, Brennan and Hermione popped into a small alleyway off a busy London street. Hermione raced out, calling over her shoulder for Brennan to follow her. The American at first raced past the witch, only turning back when Hermione called her name, standing at a door Brennan hadn't seen until that moment. "In here!" she called frantically.

The two ladies came to an abrupt halt inside the tavern, letting their eyes adjust to the shadowed, smokey interior of the Leaky Cauldron. Finally, they made out a ring of patrons surrounding an open space in the middle of the room, cleared of tables. At opposite ends of the makeshift ring, Ron and Booth stood. Both held wands. Both were shirtless. Both wavered unsteadily on their feet.

"What on earth . . ." Hermione whispered under her breath as she moved closer.

Harry sat at a table near the clearing, his head on his folded arms. Next to him was a pyramid of empty glasses, some of them still smoking.

"They didn't . . ." Hermione breathed.

"What in the world is going on here?" Hermione yelled into the silence. Every eye turned toward the two women.

"Uh oh," Ron giggled. "The party poopers are here."

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, what do you think you're doing?" Hermione marched closer, her hands on her hips.

"Bilius?" Booth burst into laughter that stopped abruptly when he almost fell face forward..

"Seeley Joseph Booth!" Brennan's tone echoed Hermione's, her expression fierce as she stood next to the witch.

"Seeley?" Ron giggled, adding for good measure a burp at the end.

"What do you two think you're doing?" Hermione asked, resisting the urge to bash both of them on top of the head.

Booth staggered over to Ron and threw his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "This my buddy," he slurred, leaning heavily on the other man. By some miracle, Ron managed to stay upright, although it was a near thing.

"Tha's right," he agreed, trying to lift his arm to Booth's shoulder. "Buddy." The two men smiled drunkenly at their wives. "Gonna show 'im wizard stuff. Make a wizard out of 'im."

Hermione stomped her foot in frustration. "Harry!" she yelled at the sleeping man sitting next to the pyramid of glasses. "Harry!" Finally, he lifted his head and stared at her through bleary eyes.

"Hermione," he muttered. Blinking several times, he added . . . "Uh oh."

She picked up an empty glass and sniffed it experimentally before slamming it down with such force the pyramid tumbled, glasses rolling across the table top and to the floor, shattering with a tinkle of sound.

"You gave a Muggle firewhiskey?"

.

.

* * *

><p><em>Yea, Pottermore put me in Slytherin. What's a former Ravenclaw to do, except make friends with Merlin. <em>

_(SandNimbus29, if you're on Pottermore and want to add me.)  
><em>


	11. Chapter 11

_**Earlier that day . . .**_

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.

Walking out into the bright, sunlight morning Booth paused in front of the hotel and rubbed his palms together. "Okay," he grinned at his companions, "so where are we really going?"

Harry threw a questioning glance at Ron. "To the Ministry of Magic," he responded. "Where did you think we were taking you?"

Booth's shoulders fell slightly. "I don't know, I just thought you might have some super-secret magic wizard stuff to show me."

Ron laughed. "What do you think we're doing, Yank? You can't buy tickets at the local pub for a guided tour of the Ministry of Magic. Although you're welcome to try – g'head, I'll stand back and watch."

Booth glared at the younger man for a moment then laughed. "Good point." He slapped Ron on the back, perhaps a bit harder than necessary to judge by Ron's grimace of discomfort. "Lead on, my good man," he said in a broad, incredible fake British accent.

The men set off walking at an easy pace, reaching within a few minutes one of the distinctive signs that indicated an Underground stop.

"This Ministry place is in the subway?" Booth asked in confusion.

"No," Harry answered. "But this is the quickest route to the visitor's entrance from here especially since we promised your wife we'd be using Muggle transportation." He skipped lightly down the steps, the other two following behind.

When they emerged a few stops later Booth noticed the neighborhood had changed significantly. A general air of neglect hung over grimy buildings, litter blowing across empty streets. His eyes sharpened even as his shoulders seemed to relax and loosen beneath the cotton shirt he wore. On reflex his hand went to his right hip; he cursed beneath his breath when he found nothing.

"Uh, guys?" he spoke in a low voice as he watched two men with shaved heads slink through a nearby doorway. "You might want to remember that I don't have my gun with me."

Harry shrugged, walking ahead nonchalantly, his smaller frame betraying no hint of nervousness or fear. Ron caught Booth's eye. "Don't worry," he grinned. "We'll protect you."

The American cast a watchful eye down the street, automatically noting open windows and potential rooftop hiding places and, for the moment, let the gibe go.

"Right, here we are," Harry said, turning down a small street and stopping beside an old-fashioned red painted phone box. The door leaned on one hinge when he tugged at it; after a casual glance around, he pulled his wand and made a quick repair. "Come on, then, inside," he waved at the other two.

Booth watched uncertainly as Ron squeezed in after Harry. "You want me to get in that thing?" he asked.

The two men nodded.

"With both of you."

Another nod.

"There's not enough room in there for a sneeze," Booth remarked, obviously, "let alone someone my size."

"It will be a bit of a tight fit," Harry agreed, "but we'll manage. Step in."

Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, he somehow maneuvered his wide shoulders into the narrow gap between the two men. Barely able to move, Harry reached beyond him and closed the door.

"Ow, that's my foot."

"I can't even feel my feet anymore."

"I . . . can't . . . breathe . . ."

"Hey, watch the hands!"

"That's the door jamb!"

"Somebody needs to dial the phone," Harry instructed. "I can't lift my arms."

Looking down, Booth found himself standing directly in front of the broken equipment. He picked up the receiver and shook the broken cord dangling helplessly. "I don't think we'll be calling anyone," he said, "although we might need to so we can get someone to bring the Jaws of Life and get us out of this thing!"

Harry sucked in his stomach and tried to press back further against the glass. "Don't worry about the receiver," he managed, "just dial 62446."

"62446?" Booth repeated, one brow lifted in query.

"Before we're crushed to death would be nice," Ron grumbled. "Why are Americans always so bloody big?"

Leaning slightly in Ron's direction as he dialed, Booth smiled in satisfaction when he heard a heavy oomphf as the red-haired man was pushed further against the already cracked window pane behind him. Booth opened his mouth to make the caustic comment he had ready when another voice spoke around them.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic." The woman's words were clear and loud. "Please state your name and business."

"Harry . . . Harry Potter," the same gasped out. "And Ron Weasley. And . . ." he paused and glanced at Booth. "What's your full name?"

"FBI Special Agent in Charge Seeley Booth," he responded, lifting the broken handset to speak loudly into the receiver.

"Mr. Booth is here as a guest of the Auror's Office," Harry said. "Er . . . he's a Muggle."

The box was quiet for a several long moments.

"A Muggle you said?" the woman asked in surprise. "Hold please."

"Why did you have to tell her the bloke's a Muggle," Ron grumbled, pushing back against the iron wall that was Booth.

"I think they'd find out," Harry answered in the same tone.

"Thank you," the voice returned. "Visitor, please attach this badge to your robes." Hearing a rattle, Booth reached into the change bin and pulled out a thin, plastic badge. _"Fbi Booth, Guest of the Auror Office" _it read. The word "Muggle" was printed in large block letters across the top.

"Please report directly to the security desk," she continued. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Have a nice day!"

With a rumble, the floor beneath their feet began to move. "What the hell . . ." Booth yelped in surprise as the light from outside slowly disappeared as they sank below street level. No sooner had the phone booth become completely dark than a broad ribbon of light shone on their feet, slowly widening until the darkness disappeared completely as they reached the Ministry. Their journey stopped with a thump. Reaching past Booth again, Harry pushed the door open and the three of them stumbled out into the atrium.

Booth glanced around the wide, open room curiously as Harry led him to the registration desk around which a group of wizards had gathered, staring without expression at the approaching trio. Booth recognized Kingsley and held out his hand in greeting.

"Ah, so it is you, Mr. Booth," the Minister accepted the offered hand. "Harry, Ron," he added. "There was some concern that the Ministry might be facing an invasion," he commented in response to Harry's questioning glance.

"Hermione is giving Dr. Brennan a tour of Hogsmeade," Harry explained.

Ron nodded. "We thought we'd show . . . " he leaned over to read Booth's visitor's badge ". . . 'Fbi' around the Ministry," he concluded with a smirk, deliberately pronouncing the initials as the word 'Fibi.'

"One of these days, Alice . . ." Booth murmured, his warning tone obvious even as the reference flew above Ron's head.

"Hmmm," Kingsley considered for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, fine. But," he added with a glance at Harry, "nothing below this level."

"Understood," Harry agreed.

He and Ron presented their wands for inspection, repocketed them and led their guest across the dark, polished floor.

Booth paused beside the fountain, staring in awe at the enormous replica of a wand rising from a base carved in the shape of a closed hand. Water shot out from a single point at the tip of the wand, falling to form a wide variety of dancing, complex patterns before splashing gently into the shimmering pool below.

"That's amazing," he commented, awestruck. "How do you get the water to . . ." he paused, watched a wizard step out of a burst of green flames that appeared in a fireplace along the opposite wall, and shook his head. "Never mind."

"Seems a bit simple to me, this fountain," Ron commented, stopping beside Booth. "The Ministry wanted to put a statue of Harry up but he said no."

"Absolutely not," Harry agreed, shaking his head.

Ron's lips quirked as he looked over at his best friend. "Just think, though, you could have been immortalized forever in stone. Standing here in this fountain, water coming out of your . . ."

"Ron, Harry!" The voice calling their names interrupted Ron's comment but didn't stop Harry from punching his shoulder before they turned to greet the newcomer. "So it's true, you brought a Muggle into the Ministry?" He eyed Booth warily.

"Seamus Finnegan, Booth." Harry introduced the two of them. "You heard about what happened at the memorial dedication?"

Seamus peered closely at Booth's badge. "Fibi?" he asked.

"No, it's . . . never mind," Booth shook his head. "Booth is fine."

"Huh." Seamus shrugged and turned back to Harry. "Yea, I heard. Meant to be there myself but I've been in Devon for a week about those exploding cauldrons." He raised a brow in Ron's direction.

"Don't look at me, mate," Ron held up his hands. "Our cauldrons are clearly labeled _Not for Use in Brewing Potions_."

"Labels come off, don't they," Seamus retorted, his jaw set. "I've told you and George they should be a different color or . . ."

"We're not selling puce-colored cauldrons, Seamus!" Ron argued. "We might as well not stock them!"

"Ahem." Harry decided it was time to interrupt. "Seamus is with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," he explained to Booth. "He and Ron have a row about once a week over one of their products. Ron and George own a couple of joke shops," he explained on seeing Booth's confused expression.

"Tell George I'll be 'round about those cauldrons," Seamus tossed over his shoulder angrily as he walked away.

"Do I look like your bloody house elf? Tell him yourself!" Ron shouted. "Mangy git used to have a sense of humor," he muttered to the departing man's back.

Harry waited a beat and then clapped his hands together once. "Well now that the excitement is over, why don't we show you around a bit?"

More than just a few times in the hours that followed, Booth wished his children were with him as he toured the Ministry of Magic. Moira would have asked questions non-stop and gotten lost a dozen times disappearing into corridors and slipping into offices while he wasn't looking. Simon and Henry would have been beside themselves chasing the memos flying through the air and poking fingers into photographs that moved and they would have been thrilled beyond imagining in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures when introduced to the reality of such creatures as dragons, goblins and trolls.

When the three men stepped out of the lift on level seven, however, Booth was glad his adventurous sons were safely back home.

There was a roar of sound as applause and cheering broke out, people reaching out to slap his back or grab his hand.

"A wizard/Muggle Quidditch match!" The rather short young black man who spoke slapped Ron on the shoulder. "Brilliant! Just brilliant!" His grin widened as he held out a hand to Booth. "Lee Jordan. I'll be calling your match."

"Calling?" Harry asked, somewhat alarmed. "It's just going to be Ron and Booth, there's no need for . . ." Lee was shaking his head.

"Oh, no. As soon as I got George's owl, we started planning. Come see!" He dragged them into a small office where a half-dozen sheets of parchment were scattered across an even smaller desk.

Harry picked one up at random, skimmed it quickly and drew a shocked breath. "Hogwarts? We're doing this at Hogwarts?"

"Where else are we going to find a Quidditch pitch available to use?" Lee asked rhetorically. "The professional teams are all using theirs – it's the middle of the season."

Ron took the page from Harry and read it, his eyes wide. "You got permission to use it?"

"Neville helped us out," Lee grinned. "And, you know, Madam Hooch always had a soft spot for Fred and George. She fixed it with Professor Cornfoot."

"The headmaster agreed to let a Muggle play Quidditch on the grounds?" Harry eyed Lee suspiciously.

"Well . . . we might have forgotten to mention that part," Lee mumbled, shifting stacks of paper on his desk. "Look," he added quickly, holding up a page, "these are the robes Dean designed."

"Robes?" Ron paled. "Hermione is going to explode."

Booth snatched the sheet from Lee's hands. "Hey, I did not agree to wear a dress!"

Lee snatched it back, his expression offended. "That's not a dress, it's a Quidditch robe!"

Harry stepped in to defuse the moment. "You did all this since yesterday?" He glanced down at the desk and turned one page slightly so he could read it better. "What's this? You have me listed as Seeker?"

"Yea," Lee beamed. "On the Muggle's team."

"Hey, why does he get Harry?" Ron asked, irritated.

"Because he's a Muggle," Lee explained patiently. "He'll probably lose anyway, might as well give him a sporting chance."

"Wait a minute . . ." Booth interrupted.

"So who's my Seeker then?" Ron spoke over Booth loudly, attempting to peer over Harry's shoulder.

"That would be me, Weasley," a snide voice entered the discussion. He passed a roll of parchment to Lee. "You wanted my suggestions for other players."

"Get off, Malfoy," Ron bit out, looking over his shoulder at the newcomer squeezing into the already crowded office. "When's the last time you were on a broom? And why would you want to be on my team anyway? Sabotaging us, are you?" He glared at Lee, who shrugged.

"He was in the Leaky Cauldron last night and overheard us planning. He volunteered."

"Why?" Ron turned to face Draco, arms crossed against his chest combatively.

The blonde-haired man held up one finger. "One, I get to beat Potter." Two fingers. "Two, I get to beat a Muggle." Three fingers. "Three, I get to beat Potter."

"Not yet you haven't, Malfoy," Harry growled. Despite the passing of time, there was no love lost between the two men and it showed.

"Now, now," Lee grinned, enjoying the ire. "Save it for the match." He rubbed his hands together in glee. "This will go down in the history books, boys! So, here's the deal – tomorrow afternoon after the Hogwarts match . . ."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Booth shook his head. "Our plane leaves tomorrow afternoon. We have to do this tonight."

"You expect me to pull this masterpiece off by tonight?" Lee asked incredulously. "Nothing doing. It's gotta to be tomorrow."

"Our plane leaves . . ."

"We'll fix that," Lee waived away the complexities of international air travel without concern. "So, tomorrow afternoon . . ."

"Bones is going to kill me," Booth murmured, closing his eyes briefly. He jabbed a finger at Ron. "This is all your fault. Maybe she'll kill you instead."

"She'll have to get in line," Ron mumbled, "because Hermione is definitely going to want to murder me."

.

.

.

Ninety minutes later the three men sat in the Leaky Cauldron nursing pints of mead. Booth hadn't even quibbled when they had to stuff themselves back in the phone box to leave the Ministry; his mind was stuck imagining Brennan's reaction when she found out about the gigantic spectacle his little game with Ron had become.

"It's all in _how_ we tell them," he explained to Ron. "We can't just blurt it out, we have to lead them to it gently."

"Unless they already know," Ron said morosely. "They've been in Hogsmeade all day. If it's all over the Ministry, it's probably all over Hogsmeade."

"Damn." Booth frowned at his drink. "I think I need something stronger than this."

Ron's head lifted. "We can do stronger." Before anyone could respond, he bounded out of his chair and headed to the bar, returning moments later with three small glasses from which a gentle haze of smoke rose.

Booth lifted his glass to the light and examined the liquid carefully then raised it to his nose and sniffed. Finally, he shrugged. "Cheers," he said, then tipped the glass and downed the contents in one long swallow.

"No!"  
>"Wait!"<p>

He barely heard Ron and Harry over the roaring in his ears and the blazing inferno that followed the liquid down his throat. Coughing, wheezing, eyes overflowing, he bent over, pounding the table with one fist while his companions slapped at his back and spoke urgently to him.

When he could breathe again he stared at them, tears still streaming down his cheeks. "What . . . the . . . hell . . . was . . . that . . . stuff?" he managed to rasp through his ravaged throat.

"Firewhiskey," Harry explained, sliding the empty glass away. "You're supposed to sip it, not down it. Open your mouth," he instructed. "Let's see if your teeth are still there."

Dentition intact, Booth sat struggling to breathe for a few more minutes while Ron and Harry sipped at their drinks. Slowly a crooked, happy grin spread across his face.

"Let's try that again." He bounced up from his seat and headed to the bar. "Three more glasses," he told Tom, slapping his hand down on the bar. "Put it on the ginger's tab." Walking carefully back to the table, he passed the glasses around and sat down. "Now, we do this again. Cheers!" He lifted his glass and sipped carefully, blowing away smoke before swallowing.

Three rounds later, he'd built a nice pyramid of empty glasses in the middle of the table. They had also collected an audience, most of whom came up to shake Harry's hand and stayed to stare in surprise at the Muggle sitting happily – if somewhat tipsily – in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron drinking firewhiskey with their hero.

Booth suddenly decided Brennan really needed to experience firewhiskey herself. "Let's go get her!" he said, standing up with a jerk that almost sent the fragile pyramid tumbling. He grabbed Ron's arm. "Come on . . . do that whoosh! thing!"

Ron shook his head. "Can't," he said. "Been drinking." He waved a newly refilled glass in the air, sloshing a few drops onto the table where they sizzled into the wood. "Might . . ." he swallowed a burp, ". . . splish," he ended with a slight slur.

Booth sat back down with a thump. "What the hell is splish?" he asked, trying to balance his newly empty glass on top of the pyramid.

"It's when you app….app…..whoosh 'n leave part of you behind," Ron managed to get out, blinking slowly at the wobbling display.

A thread of sobriety wound through Booth's subconscious. "What part?" he asked, horrified.

On the other side of the table, Harry giggled. "Not part," he snickered. "Parts. Bits. If you're not careful, you leave bits of you behind." He punched his best friend. "Ron usually loses a toenail or two."

"They grow back," Ron hunched his shoulders.

"You've been whooshing us . . ." Booth's hand swooped above the table in a dramatic gesture, " . . . all over the place and you didn't tell us we might lose a toenail?"

Harry shook his head, then closed his eyes and grabbed for the edge of the table. "Hermione doesn't splish . . . splinch."

"Toenails don't hurt," Ron insisted. "Not like this." He fumbled with the shirt he wore beneath his robes for several minutes then stood unsteadily, tossed his robe over a chair and pulled his shirt off. "Look!" he leaned in close to Booth, pointing to the deep scaring on his shoulder. "That hurt."

Booth inspected the old wound then rolled his eyes. "That's nothing." Pushing back from the table he stood up and, after several tries, managed to get his shirt unbuttoned. "This," he said, struggling to get it off with one hand and point to an old bullet wound with the other, "this hurt."

A group of young witches sitting in a table closer to the bar tittered and stared avidly at the two half-dressed men.

Ron peered at it closely. "That little thing?"

"I got shot! That hurts" Booth insisted. "And look at this," he added, twisting to display another old wound in his side. His feet shuffled as he struggled to keep his balance. "I got shot here, too."

"I guess I'm not the only one you annoy," Ron snickered.

Booth grabbed the younger man and locked his head in the crook of his elbow. "Who's annoyed now, huh?" he asked.

At the table, Harry laughed uproariously as the two men stumbled around in a circle, Ron struggling to break free of the hold. Tables and chairs were hastily moved, clearing an open space in the center of the room as the other wizards and witches in the tavern surrounded them, calling out advice and suggestions.

Finally Ron managed to loosen the hold and the two of them grappled back and forth, swapping insults as they wrestled for supremacy amid the cheers and jeers of the watching crowd. Finally, Ron managed to sweep the older man's legs out from under him and Booth landed with a thump on the floor. He lay on his back, catching his breath.

"I let you win," he breathed, laughing, reaching up to grasp the hand Ron extended to help him up.

"I took it easy on you," Ron countered. "I didn't use my wand."

"You can't fight with those little sticks," Booth sneered. Someone stuck another glass of firewhiskey in his hand. "It would just get in the way."

"No, it's a wizard's duel," Ron explained, accepting another glass and sipping.

"What, you stand there and threaten to turn each other into toads?" Booth joked.

Ron, having finished his drink, thought that was hysterically funny and doubled over laughing.

"I'd put my gun up against your little stick any day," he insisted, tossing back the last of the smoking liquid.

"Well, you'd have to," Ron nodded wisely, stumbling as he lost his balance. "You couldn't win a wizard's duel."

"If you can do it, I can do it," Booth insisted, jabbing his thumb toward his own chest so hard he took a few steps back.

"I've got five galleons on the Muggle," a voice in the crowd spoke up, joined suddenly by a host of others. Coins clinked and deals were struck and somehow, Ron and Booth ended up with yet another glass in their hands.

"He can use my wand," a young witch tittered as she stepped forward, blushing a deep red and giggling when Booth gave her a wide smile and accepted the long, golden brown offering.

"What's happenin' here?" Hagrid's deep voice cut through the noise as he cleared his own path through the crowd. His huge hand rested on Harry's shoulder where he sat, head on his arms, eyes closed. "Harry? Harry? What's goin' on here?"

Harry's eyes fluttered open sleepily. "Ron's dueling," his eyes drifted closed. "With the Muggle." His head dropped back to his arms.

"What?" Hagrid's voice was alarmed. "He can't do that! Ron!"

Booth, standing at one end of the cleared space and surrounded by wizards offering him advice on how to hold a wand and cast spells, looked up at the huge man yelling at Ron. "Woa," he said loudly. "That guy's huge!"

"Shhhh!" Ron said loudly. "He'll hear you!"

"Alright, lads," Hagrid said. "I think ye've had a wee bit too much to drink. Give me the wands before someone gets hurt."

Ron giggled. "I can't get hurt. He can't use a wand!"

"From the looks of things," Hagrid responded, "ya could hurt yerself. Hand over the wands."

Their audience began to grumble and complain until Ron and Booth joined the chorus, arguing over their intention to duel. Bright red sparks flew from the tip of Ron's wand as he waved it around haphazardly. Finally, Hagrid threw up his hands and backed away.

"Only one thing left to do," he said, reaching into his overcoat and withdrawing his pink umbrella. "He'll thank me later."

With a wave of the umbrella, he sent a streak of silver soaring into the distance.

.

.

.

* * *

><p><em>What's a Quidditch match without Lee calling it, right?<em>


	12. Chapter 12

"I don't believe this," Hermione muttered angrily, stomping across the floor. Alarmed, the men separated as quickly as their inebriated brains could issue instructions to their feet. "Give me that wand," she said as she ripped Ron's from his unresisting hand, sending a font of bright yellow sparks sizzling from the tip. "And you . . ." Booth took an involuntary step back as she marched toward him, ire in her eyes. She came to a stop directly in front of him, hands on her hips. "Who gave you that wand?"

His searching gaze landed on Brennan standing at the edge of the circle in a similar pose, hands on hips, glaring at him. "Are you two related?" he asked, trying to blink her into focus.

Hermione surveyed the crowd. "I asked," she repeated, her voice in a low hiss, "who owns this wand?"

"It's mine, miss," the young witch hesitated before she stepped forward and removed it from Booth's open hand.

"And do you make a habit of loaning your wand to persons unqualified to use one?" Hermione asked, her tone severe, one brow arched high.

"No, miss," the witch shook her head. "It were just a joke . . ."

"Wand security is not a joke . . ."

"Blimey, Hermione, you sound like ol' Mad Eye," George interrupted, leading a small group of laughing friends through the crowd. "I'm too late for the fun, then? Damn," he huffed. "I wanted to put some galleons on the Muggle."

At her wits end, Hermione stomped her foot. "He's a Muggle!" she screeched. "He can't use a wand! He couldn't win a wizard's duel!"

"You wouldn't think so," George agreed, "but seeing as how it's Ron . . ."

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. "I'll have you know Ron is very proficient with his wand!" she pronounced loudly.

There was a beat of silence before George snickered then let out a bark of laughter that was soon echoed by most of the crowd. Even Ron, his smile drunkenly lopsided, winked at her and grinned. Blushing a deep crimson, Hermione growled out a sound of frustration.

"Excuse me," Brennan interrupted, "but what exactly did Booth drink? Is it dangerous?" She waved away the smoke that still wafted gently from several of the glasses and lifted one to her nose.

"Firewhiskey," Hermione answered. "I don't think it will be harmful but I can't be sure," she added. "We should probably get them both sober." She considered for a moment. "Harry's home is here in London; we can take them all there while I brew something up."

"Fine," Brennan said. She scooped up Booth's shirt from where he'd tossed it casually over the back of a chair and carried it to where he stood on unsteady legs. When he made no move to take it from her, she huffed and redressed him herself.

"Spoilsport," she heard a woman grumble from the crowd as she buttoned the simple shirt across his broad chest.

Across the floor, Hermione struggled similarly with Ron, her efforts hindered by his sloppy attempts to land a kiss. "Honestly, Ronald," she grumbled, finally placating him momentarily by giving him a noisy buss on the lips.

"How are we going to get to Harry's home?" Brennan asked, slipping around to Booth's side to help him stand upright.

"George, help us with Harry," Hermione ordered before responding to Brennan. "We can flag a car to take us to Grimmauld Place. The driver won't see the house itself but he can get us to the square." Slowly, she walked Ron through the crowd and out of the Leaky Cauldron, the others following in her wake. The laughter they left behind was silenced abruptly as they reached the sidewalk and the door closed after them.

"What is it that you're going to give them?" Brennan asked, out of breath slightly from supporting Booth's weight.

Gesturing to a passing hackney cab, Hermione tossed an arch look over her shoulder. "I know a potion that will sober them right up." Stuffing Ron into the backseat, she helped Brennan fold Booth's legs in while George settled Harry, snoring once more, next to the driver. The women squeezed into the small amount of remaining space in the vehicle.

They released identical deep sighs, rolling their eyes when their husbands immediately began arguing with each other over who was taking up more space in the crowded back seat.

"I hope this . . . potion . . . is especially bad tasting," Brennan said, massaging fingertips into her throbbing temples.

"Oh, it's foul," Hermione said, smiling grimly. "It's made with flobberworm mucus."

.

.

The swell of midday traffic through London meant that by the time the car slid to a stop next to the small park off Grimmauld Place, Booth and Ron were snoring just as loudly as Harry. Hermione and Brennan gratefully escaped the crowded confines of the car and were just beginning to drag the men out when Ginny appeared.

"George sent a message that you were headed this way with the three of them," she answered Hermione's unspoken question. "What happened?" she asked, shaking Harry gently in an attempt to wake him.

"Firewhiskey," Hermione answered, barely saving Ron from tumbling out onto the street when she opened the door next to him. "Ron and Booth were trying to duel."

"With wands?" Ginny's horrified voice matched her expression.

Brennan propped up Booth and turned in time to see 12 Grimmauld Place pushing aside the homes on either side. Her mouth fell open for a second before she closed her eyes and shook her head.

"With wands," Hermione repeated. "Sorry to descend on you like this but I didn't want to chance losing someone by apparating with them. They're probably drunk enough to let go mid-flight!"

Ginny led the way across the street and up a small flight of stairs. "No worries," she said, stepping into the brightly lit entrance hall and holding the door open with one foot as the other two women tugged their burdens inside. "Fortunately, Lily is having a visit with Mum. Let's put your two in James' room," she offered, "as it's only one flight up." She struggled up the narrow stairway with Harry. "Bitsy!" she called over her shoulder.

A tiny house-elf appeared at the end of the hallway behind the stairs. She stopped abruptly when she saw Hermione and ducked behind a tall planter. "Yes, Mistress?" she squeaked, peeping out from between the leaves of the plant, her pointed ears quivering.

"Bitsy, can you go into James' room and split the bed so we can put Ron and our other guest in there? I would be very grateful," Ginny's words huffed out between heavy breaths.

Bitsy ducked lower behind the plant. "Bitsy is happy to help Mistress in any way," her voice piped up, her big round eyes fixed somewhat defiantly on Hermione. With a small pop! she disappeared.

Brennan followed Hermione and Ron, dragging Booth to the first landing. "As soon as we get the men settled," she managed, "I want to know what that was."

The house elf's head appeared around an open door. Catching Brennan's eye, she beckoned her forward with one long finger.

Two long narrow beds filled the floor space in a room obviously normally occupied by a young man. The bedclothes were in shades of red and gold while on the wall, posters of Puddlemere United and The Weird Sisters battled with each other for supremacy, pulling faces and making rude gestures at each other. Brennan and Hermione worked in silence, settling the two men on the beds, removing their shoes and drawing the sheets over them.

"They're like toddlers," Ginny said from the doorway, smiling as she smoothed her ruffled hair and nodding toward the sleeping men. "Lovely when they're asleep and nothing but trouble the rest of the time." The tiny house elf hid behind her legs, peeking out occasionally. Her expression when she looked at Hermione was an odd combination of fear and rebellion.

"It . . . She?" Brennan asked silently, looking at Hermione who nodded. "She seems afraid of you. Why?"

"She's not afraid, exactly," Hermione answered. "She just doesn't understand. None of them understand." She shook her head sadly.

Ginny led the way downstairs. "Perhaps it's not them, Hermione. Maybe it's you." Down another staircase and they entered a long, narrow kitchen. "Cauldron is in that cupboard," Ginny pointed to a heavy, scarred wooden cabinet. "We have a store of basic ingredients right above." She busied herself at the old fashioned stove for a few minutes then waved Brennan to a chair at the table, placing in front of her a steaming cup of tea followed by a plate piled high. "Biscuit?" she offered, taking a seat for herself.

"What is she?" Brennan asked, sipping delicately from her cup.

"She's a house elf," Ginny explained. "They're . . . servants, of a sort."

"Slaves, you mean," Hermione huffed, placing a battered cauldron atop the cupboard with a heavy thump. "Unpaid, overworked, underappreciated slaves."

"Bitsy is not underappreciated or overworked," Ginny responded with the air of someone who'd had this argument many times in the past. "And she's unpaid only because she refuses to take money from us."

"Bitsy is a special case," Hermione admitted. "But in the rest of the wizarding world . . ."

"House elves fare much better now, Hermione," Ginny insisted. "You should know that because it's all due to your efforts. But you can't force them to go against their nature. You should know that, too. Because you failed spectacularly when you tried," she finished, somewhat beneath her breath although it was clear from the loud hrrumph! at the cauldron that Hermione heard her.

"But what are they?" Brennan asked again. "Where do they come from?"

"No one really knows," Ginny shrugged. "They belong to houses, mostly to very old wizarding families. Harry inherited this house from his godfather and with it was this old, very nasty elf, Kreacher."

"Ginny," Hermione admonished with a frown, pouring something slimy into the cauldron.

"Well, he was," Ginny shrugged again. "He got better, after he found out the truth of what happened to his old master but when we started remodeling this place he . . . reverted a bit." She shuddered as she sipped from her cup. "It was awful, this house," she said, looking around. "It was dark and brooding and ugly. Remember that painting of the old hag by the door?" she asked, grinning over her shoulder at Hermione. "Every time someone rang the doorbell she'd start screaming obscenities and insults."

"The painting would scream?" Brennan asked, her cup paused in midair.

"Mmm," Ginny nodded. "It was hung with a permanent sticking charm; we finally had to tear down the wall completely to get rid of it. Kreacher cried for days until we allowed him to hang the painting next to his sleeping place. Creepy little bugger."

"Ginny."

"Hermione, he was tetched in the head. You have to admit that."

"Where is he now?" Brennan asked, interrupting what seemed to be an argument brewing.

"He died several years ago. But not before he tried to get Harry to promise to cut off his head and mount it on the wall." At Brennan's horrified look, she laughed. "Oh, that was another lovely feature of this house. A row of dead house elf heads in the hallway. Needless to say, Harry refused."

"And Bitsy is what, his daughter?"

"Dunno." Ginny made a face. "One day, Kreacher disappeared and when he came back, he had Bitsy with him. He said she was next in line to 'serve the noble House of Black which was now the home of Harry Potter.' It was impossible to say no. Every time we mentioned that we really didn't need or want another house elf, she went into hysterics and Kreacher started beating himself up with the frying pan. Finally, we said we were happy to have Bitsy and two days later, Kreacher died."

"If you'd just give her clothes . . ." Hermione waved her wand beneath the cauldron, creating gentle blue flames that lapped hungrily at the copper.

"Hermione, if you mention clothes again to Bitsy I will hex you," a thread of steel ran through Ginny's voice as she eyed her sister-in-law. "The last time she heard you suggest them she cried for three weeks straight."

"But . . ."

"Three weeks straight, Hermione! Have you ever listened to a house elf sobbing for three weeks straight? No. So don't mention clothes again." Hermione rolled her eyes as she sat down. "I don't understand it and neither I nor Harry particularly like it, but she's happy. House elves are happiest when they're serving a family. You can't force them to change their nature just because you don't agree with it."

Brennan nodded. "I agree with the general principle behind that statement. I've made anthropological studies of many different cultures and while I sometimes found various aspects to be disagreeable or distasteful, it wasn't my place to invalidate their beliefs."

"There you have it, Hermione," Ginny grinned triumphantly. "Anthropology is on my side." A sour smell began to waft from the cauldron. "How long till the potion is ready?"

"An hour or so," Hermione answered, following Ginny's lead and dropping the subject. "When it belches, it's ready."

"Well, then, Dr. Brennan," Ginny pushed her chair back and stood up. "How would you like a tour of the house?"

Close to an hour later they'd reached the attics where Brennan stared in horrified fascination at the mounted heads of deceased house elves. With a soft pop, the house elf appeared in the doorway.

"The gentlemens is waking, mistress," she said in her squeaky voice. "The Mister Wheezy is looking sick."

"Thank you, Bitsy," Ginny said. "Would you check the potion in the kitchen and let me know if it's burping?"

"Bitsy is happy to help Mistress and the sick gentlemens," the house elf answered, and disappeared.

The women followed the sounds of moaning to the bedroom where Ron and Booth were just beginning to wake.

Booth lay curled on his side, his head in his hands. "I'm going to be sick," he whispered.

"Please stop screaming," Ron groaned, eyes closed, his skin tinted a faint green.

Bitsy was back, tugging at Ginny's sleeve and nodding. "Oh, good," Hermione said loudly, smiling victoriously when both men shrank away from the sound of her voice in the room. She put her hand on Ron's forehead and leaned closer. "I'll be back in just a minute with something that will help you feel much better," she yelled.

Brennan and Ginny exchanged glances as she walked out of the room. "Yea, it's never good to get on her bad side," Ginny said with a laugh.

She was back quickly, carrying a mug in one hand and floating two more in front of her, one of which she passed to Ginny who grimaced and headed up to the next level. Passing off the one in her hand to Brennan, she snatched the other out of the air and sat down with a bounce on the bed next to Ron. "Uuuuuuhhhh," he groaned again, burying his face in the pillow beneath his head.

"Here you are," Hermione sang, her voice loud and falsely cheery. "This will make you feel all better!" She lifted his head and put the cup to his lips, tipping the contents into his mouth. With a jerk of her head, she indicated to Brennan that she should do the same.

Booth opened one bloodshot eye when the bed beside him dipped. "I'm dying, baby," he moaned. "Tell the kids I love 'em."

She bit back a smile and lifted his head gently. "You're not dying, Booth. You're just experiencing the after-effects of intoxication." Following Hermione's lead, she poured the foul-smelling glutinous concoction into his mouth. "This will help you feel better."

Simultaneously, he and Ron spluttered and gagged at the taste of the potion. Brennan leaned back in alarm. "Don't worry," Hermione advised. "I added a pinch of crushed silverweed to prevent vomiting." She put the mug to Ron's lips again. "Here you go, drink it up!"

"God, Hermione," Ron rasped when she finally let his head drop back to the pillow. "What is that stuff?"

"Sophrosinian Elixir," she answered. "Nasty, isn't it?"

"I think I'd rather be hung-over," he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"This is all your fault, kid," Booth said, wiggling his fingers as feeling came back into his extremities. "Bones, it's all his fault."

"I very much doubt that, Booth," she said.

He lifted himself up on one elbow and offered her a pale imitation of his usual smile. "You've got to try that stuff, though. Just not this much."

She rolled her eyes and stood up. "At least one good thing has come from your ill-advised drinking binge," she said, smiling grimly. "Neither you nor Ron will be up to that silly little game tonight!"

He and Ron exchanged an alarmed glance before he fell back heavily to his pillow. "Yea, about the match . . ."

.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

_I miss Dobby. :-(_


	13. Chapter 13

Brennan wasn't speaking to Booth.

Hermione wasn't speaking to Ron.

Despite the noise in the kitchen, crowded now with wizards seated around the long table discussing and arguing over the upcoming Quidditch match, their silence was a deafening roar that rose above everything else. On opposite sides of the table the two women stood, arms crossed, faces expressionless. Mostly they stared at their respective husbands . . . who carefully ignored them and even more carefully refused to meet their gaze. Occasionally the women glanced at each other, sighed heavily then resumed their pointed stares.

Finally, George turned around. "You two are about as lovely as a couple of Dementors," he groused to Hermione. "You're bleeding all the fun out of a friendly game of Quidditch."

"I'm trying to stop him," Hermione glared at Booth, "from bleeding all over the Quidditch pitch!" she answered smartly.

"Ah now, that's not fair," George shook his head in mock sadness. "And here we are, coming up with all these new rules just so the Muggle won't get his fragile self hurt and you doubt us." He sighed dramatically. "No faith, these women. No faith."

"We're going to let James and Freddie play," Harry pointed out. "That should tell you we're not worried the game will be dangerous."

"They. Are. Wizards," Hermione bit out. "And skilled players themselves! No, it doesn't reassure me!"

"Yea, but we put Freddie on Ron's team," Lee Jordan spoke up from his seat at the table, "and since he knows he can't hit the bludger directly at the Muggle . . ."

"It's simple, really," Ron spoke up finally, pulling a sheet of parchment from a pile in the middle of the table. "See?" He read from a numbered list. "Bludgers are not to be aimed toward the Muggle's head or upper extremities."

"Upper extremities are off limits," George repeated sagely. "We'll only aim for his lower extremities."

"Not too low," Booth inserted, grinning.

"Of course," Hermione answered snidely. "We'll just have Bill stop in mid-flight so the bludger can be aimed according to the rules. You idiots!" She grabbed for a handful of pages and smacked the back of George's head. "What if he falls off the broom?"

George scratched his head. "Why would he want to fall off the broom?" he asked. "Much safer to stay on it."

"Yea, I'd rather stay on," Booth shook his head, his grin indicating his lack of fear. Behind him, Brennan growled her frustration then repeated Hermione's actions when she snatched a sheaf of paper from the table and rapped him sharply on the head.

"You don't know how to ride a broom, Booth!" She dropped the papers on the table and closed her eyes. "I can't believe I just said that," she mumbled, shaking her head.

Lee frowned. "That's a fair point," he said, looking at the American. "You should practice."

"What?"  
>"That's probably a good idea."<br>"Brilliant idea!"  
>"No!"<br>"Where should we go?"  
>"Are you listening to yourselves?"<br>"Should we get Bill?"  
>"That's not what I meant!"<br>"We could pick up the brooms now and use the field behind the shop."  
>"We should practice riding double, too."<br>"Stop!"  
>"I can take Booth to Diagon Alley."<br>"I don't believe this."  
>"Not a chance. I want to keep my toenails."<br>"Wonder if he can use the Floo network?"  
>"They grow back."<br>"Hey, d'you think we could get James and Freddie out of school and practice with them, too?"  
>"Toenails?"<br>"I'll take him."  
>"What is wrong with his toenails?"<br>"I need all my body parts, kid."  
>"Ron sometimes leaves his behind . . ."<br>"What network?"  
>"We could meet them in Hogsmeade . . ."<br>"What do you mean, he leaves his toenails behind?"  
>"You are not sneaking those children out of school!"<br>"The women can meet us tonight at the Three Broomsticks and we'll finalize everything."  
>"Too bad the secret tunnels aren't secret anymore."<br>"I don't know what that means."  
>"Look, they grow back."<br>"Harry, do you still have the map?"  
>"So it's settled, then?"<br>"What's settled?"  
>"Dad might know some cushioning spells, you know, just in case."<br>"Oh, good idea."  
>"What is settled?"<br>"Hermione, bring Dad."  
>"I refuse to humour you in this insane idea . . ."<br>"Are we ready, then?"  
>"Who am I going with?"<br>"I don't believe this . . ."  
>"I'll take you. Last time I checked, I had all my toenails."<br>"Is anyone listening to me?"  
>"THEY GROW BACK!"<p>

Chairs scraped as they were pushed back from the table while papers were sorted and gathered up. As everyone headed upstairs, Booth pulled Brennan into a quick hug.

"I'll see you later at . . ." he turned back to Ron. "Where did you say we're meeting?"

"The Three Broomsticks," Ron answered, still avoiding Hermione's eyes. "It's a pub in Hogsmeade."

"What he said," Booth nodded toward Ron and bent his head to drop a quick kiss on her lips, ignoring her glare.

"Fine. I'll just go back to the hotel and see if Angela has any news on the remains," she huffed. "That is why we were invited into this community, remember?"

He smiled at her ruffled demeanour. "Sure. You can give me the full report tonight. Tell her I said hello."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'll call our attorney, also," she added, "to make sure your last will and testament is current."

"Ah, now, no one's going to die," George smiled cheekily, stopping to pat Booth on the shoulder as he passed by on the way to the stairs. "No one's died playing Quidditch in at least six months." Laughing, he skipped away.

Booth eyed Brennan uncertainly. "He's kidding, Bones. He's kidding." He grabbed Harry as he walked by. "He is kidding, right?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. You're much more likely to break an arm or a leg than you are to die. Ready?"

"See? I'll be fine." He gave her another hard squeeze. "Relax, Bones. I promise not to get killed." Another kiss and he bounded away after Harry.

.

.  
>"Sweetie, you look awful." Angela's voice matched her concerned expression. "Didn't you sleep well last night?"<p>

"I may never sleep well again," Brennan mumbled, looking away from the camera. "Never mind," she said when she noticed the puzzled expression on Angela's face. "Did the remains arrive this morning?"

"Yes," Angela nodded. "It was a little strange, actually. Clark said the crate was sitting on one of the exam tables when he arrived. No one knows how it got in here or who signed for it. If it hadn't had your handwriting on the label, we wouldn't have opened it."

Brennan chose to ignore that avenue of discussion. "Have you made any progress on the reconstruction?"

"I've started in-putting the measurements from the skull and Hodgins is working on the soil samples you sent. I should have an image for you in a couple of hours."

"Good. I'll be here in the hotel for a few more hours and it would be helpful if you could send it before I have to leave again tonight."

"Are you having reception problems?" Angela asked.

"Something like that," Brennan murmured. "I haven't been able to get a signal when I'm with . . . never mind. Just let me know when you have something for me. Oh, and we may be leaving later than originally scheduled tomorrow."

"Why? Because of this new case?"

"Not exactly," she answered, massing her temples. "But I've been told our flight will be delayed tomorrow by unforeseen circumstances."

"Well that's weird."

"Ange, you have no idea."

.

.

.

* * *

><p><em>What, you're going to just read and run? tsk tsk tsk <em>


	14. Chapter 14

Despite putting all of her not inconsiderable talents to the task and despite directing every ounce of her immense intellectual abilities to finding a way to put a stop to the day's events, somehow Dr. Temperance Brennan found herself sitting amid a loud, boisterous crowd on a bench near the top of the seats ringing the Quidditch pitch on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry.

On another day her attention might have been caught by the sprawling, turreted old castle standing high on a hill overlooking the pitch. She might have finagled an invitation to explore every ancient corridor and allowed herself hours . . . perhaps days . . . to study the architectural details and statuary and masonry techniques that kept it standing tall and strong and sturdy despite its very obvious age. She might have carefully inspected the newer portions, the repairs done to the damage it sustained twenty years earlier.

But not today. Today she was watching a game she hadn't known existed being played by members of a group of people she hadn't believed were real. Witches. Wizards. Magic. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the scene differed only in the constantly changing position of the players flying through the air on brooms . . . _flying through the air on brooms!_. . . She looked discretely around at the happy, cheering spectators surrounding her. No one else seemed particularly worried. No one else appeared to have a stomach at once churning with anxiety and knotted with fear. Well, maybe one person, she amended silently when she noticed Hermione's hands gripped together tightly in her lap. At least her husband was in no real danger. But Booth . . .

She chanced a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was clapping and cheering and treating all of this as if it were a harmless little game of lawn bowling. As if he were invincible, as if getting hurt, seriously hurt, wasn't a real possibility. She remembered his excitement last night as he'd described flying with Bill, moving so fast through the air, switching directions in an instant. He'd raved over the excitement, the thrill of being in the air like that and none of the numerous rational, well-rehearsed arguments she'd made in an effort to change his mind had any effect. He'd worn the same expression their sons had last Christmas when Jack had given all of the kids miniature go-carts – right before Simon and Henry steered theirs directly at each other and crashed spectacularly. Simon had needed six stitches to close up the gash on his head and Henry had sprained his wrist.

He'd tried to quell her fears. He described the brooms they were borrowing, how they were special models designed for more than one person, even though that usually meant a parent and child. He tried to describe the charm George had mentioned that would keep the two riders loosely connected without someone having to physically hold on to the other. He mentioned the half-dozen or so wizards who had volunteered to patrol the pitch, their focus on him so that if despite all precautions he did fall off the broom, they could quickly step in and stop him from smashing into the earth. Not that he was going to fall off, he reassured her.

Of course not, she thought. Once again, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She opened them and stared down at a lawn of such vivid green she knew she must be in Scotland. _Scotland_. She refused to think about the fact that she'd woken up in a hotel in the heart of London and yet now, without having seen a car or a train or a plane, she was in Scotland.

On the other side of Booth, sitting between him and Ron, Hermione tried again. She began a continuing, hissing commentary that both men simply ignored or talked over. Finally Ginny, seated one row below them, turned around.

"Give it a rest, Hermione," she said irritably. "If you haven't managed to talk them out of it already you certainly won't now. Drop it." Pouting a bit, Hermione sat back with a huff.

Brennan continued to watch with mute fascination the Quidditch match being played by the Hogwarts students. Seeing the Weasley clan playing a modified version with the tips of their toes almost skirting the grass had been one thing but watching these children . . . _Children!_ she thought in horror. _Harry's son isn't more than fourteen and_. . . she cringed as a bludger shot in his direction thudded into his shoulder, sending him spinning on his broom and allowing the quaffle to sail untouched through the hoop he guarded. The students around them robed in maroon and gold groaned sympathetically while loud cheers rose from those supporting the team garbed in blue.

"Shake it off, James!" Harry called out. "Back up to the hoops!"

Booth clapped enthusiastically. "Rub some dirt on it, kid! It'll be fine!" he yelled, whistling loudly. "What?" he shrugged, responding to the perplexed look Ron sent his way.

The action was almost too fast to follow, her head swiveling back and forth as Brennan tried to keep up with the players whipping through the air on brooms. And then, suddenly, it was over, the players landing on the grass, the team in blue screaming and cheering with excitement as they hoisted a young girl high on their shoulders. She held one closed fist in the air and waved it around happily. In the group around Brennan and Booth, shoulders dropped and disappointed groans filled the air.

"There goes the House Cup for another year," Harry shook his head.

"Well," Ginny said, her tone dismayed, "at least it's not Slytherin."

"I'm sure Malfoy will have a few gloating words to say anyway," Ron muttered. "And the bleeding git's on my team."

As the students below cleared off the field a palpable hum of excitement swept through the stands. Several heads turned to look up at them, whispering behind their hands.

"Right, then." Harry rubbed the palms of his hands on his knees and stood up. "Time for us to head down." He stole a kiss from Ginny. "Wish me luck?"

She cupped his cheek and kissed him again. "When have you ever needed luck to catch the snitch?"

Ron stood and cast a hang-dog look at Hermione. "Oh, stop it," she groused, grabbing the front of his robes and pulling him toward her. "Don't get the Muggle killed," she murmured against his lips.

Booth and Brennan watched the gentle displays of marital affection in silence before Booth stood and with a broad grin, grabbed Brennan's hand. "Come 'ere," he growled as he pulled her into a passionate embrace.

She kissed him back with equal intensity and when their lips finally, reluctantly, separated held his eyes with hers. "You will be careful." She laid one hand softly against his face.

"Always," he answered, his voice quiet, his gaze focused on her.

"I am not happy about this," she added.

"I know, baby." He stole another quick kiss. "But I promise you I'll be fine."

"You can't know that, Booth," she said, giving it one last effort. "There are too many variables in play, so many different elements to this game that predicting an outcome with any degree of reasonable certainty is impossible."

"So you'll just have to trust me," he responded, smiling when she huffed and rolled her eyes, tucking a windblown strand of her hair behind one ear.

"Think they know we're still here?" Ron leaned down to whisper in Hermione's ear, earning an elbow in his side for his trouble.

"We're good?" Booth addressed Brennan, ignoring Ron's remark.

Worry still evident in her expression Brennan nonetheless nodded. "Yes. I have no recourse but to trust that when this game is over, you will still be among the living."

"Thrilling vote of confidence, that," Ron murmured.

Hermione glared at him. "Ronald!"

After pressing one last kiss on Brennan's forehead, Booth punched Ron on the shoulder. "Keep it up, ginger. It just makes me want to kick your ass all the more," he said as they made their way through the crowded aisle to the stairs.

Next to Ginny one row below, Arthur stood up to follow them. He paused and held out a hand to Brennan. "We'll do our best to make sure your young man stays hale and hearty, Dr. Brennan."

She grabbed his hand as if it were a lifeline offered a castaway, happy that he would be on the field, looking out for Booth. Despite his sometimes childlike enthusiasm for everything related to the non-magical world, there was a solid core of dependability and responsibility readily apparent in his manner. "Thank you, Arthur."

Hermione filled the empty space left by the men and scooted closer to Brennan. "I'm sure we're worried about nothing," she said, nodding her head repeatedly.

"No, I have several valid reasons for my apprehension," Brennan disagreed. "First, this game itself is very dangerous. Second . . ."

Ginny looked over her shoulder with a smile. "Hermione was just using a figure of speech, Dr. Brennan."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Brennan glanced at the woman beside her. Hermione smiled faintly and reached out to grasp her hand.

Several long minutes later there was movement below as two groups walked out onto the field. Applause and cheers filled the air as waves of people in the overcrowded stands jumped to their feet.

Brennan stared down at the group, despite the distance easily able to pick out Booth, laughing at something George had just said close to his ear. His group wore long black robes, the white stripes over the shoulders matching the large white letter "M" emblazoned on the back. The other side wore the same in reverse, with a large black letter "W" adorning the dazzling white of their robes. As if he felt her gaze Booth looked up and unerringly caught her eye. She saw his broad smile as he raised his fist in a wave of triumph. In spite of her worry, she felt an answering smile lift the corners of her lips. He did look good in those long sweeping coats, she thought as she shook her head but lifted her hand and waved back.

"Welcome Quidditch fans!" A voice suddenly boomed through the stands and along with everyone else, Brennan craned her neck as she searched over the heads of the crowd until she caught a glimpse of the young man she remembered as the driving force behind the show the match had become. "Welcome to the world's first Muggle vs. Wizard Quidditch match!" Another loud roar echoed through the air.

"Playing for the Wizards Team . . . Argus Wood, Keeper!" A stocky young man with golden hair stepped forward and raised his broom. The applause lowered only slightly in volume as each player stepped forward on hearing their name called.

"The Beaters . . . Dylard Ogg and Freddie Weasley!"

"The Chasers . . . Lucretia Pucey and Ron Weasley!"

"The Seeker . . . Draco Malfoy!"

"And now . . . for the Muggle Team . . . James Potter, Keeper!"

"The Beaters . . . Bertie King and Elliott Chang!"

"The Chasers . . . Kenneth Towers and the Muggle, Seeley Booth!"

"The Seeker . . . Harry Potter!"

"Now, now," Brennan saw Lee stand up and wave his hand in a gesture meant to quiet the crowd. "Because we have a Muggle playing, the rules have been changed a bit. Listen up." There was a rustle as voices softened and those who had been standing sat down. "First of all, it's all thanks to Ron and the Muggle Booth that we're having all this fun." The audience obligingly cheered and clapped. "Because the Muggle can't ride a broom on his own, he'll be riding with Bill Weasley!" More applause as Bill stepped forward and waved. "And since it's only fair that Ron have the same handicap, he'll be riding with George Weasley!"

"Notice the double brooms that Ron and Booth are using, folks. They're being donated for today's fun by Dusty Brooms in Diagon Alley. They're perfect when you want to travel but your little ones are afraid of apparition. So remember . . . if you need to zoom, shop at Dusty Brooms!"

A faint rustle of parchment could be heard when Lee paused. "The match is also being sponsored by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Today only, ten percent off all purchases in the Hogsmeade shop! Just remember, all products are used at the buyer's own risk!"

"All players have agreed to play by the modified rules for today's game. A few wizards will be roaming the pitch below, just in case the Muggle falls off. We don't want anyone really hurt, now do we? And now . . . who's ready for some Quidditch?"

The screams and cheers from the crowd vibrated the very stands. Brennan held her breath as Lee called out, "Players - in the air!" Her teeth clenched together so hard her jaw felt wired shut as Booth, in place in front of Bill, zoomed up. Her eyes closed briefly when she heard his distinctive laugh drift on the wind.

"Release the snitch!" Arthur flipped open the lid of the small trunk he stood beside. The ball of gold streaked away.

"Release the bludgers!" Warily, Arthur stepped back and pointed his wand toward the trunk; with a sharp, jabbing movement the restraints fell back and the two dark balls shot skyward.

"And now….quaffle in play!" Arthur picked up the large red ball and, with a bit of magical help, threw it high into the air.

"And we're off!" Lee yelled jubilantly. "Tower grabs the quaffle first for the Muggle team and races toward the Wizard hoops . . .oh! Too bad, that hit, but what a bludger by Freddie Weasley! Don't let that dark hair fool you, folks! That boy is all Weasley when it comes to Quidditch!"

"Nice catch by Pucey . . . she's got the quaffle and . . . wow is she fast, she's already at the hoops and . . . awww, Potter misses the save and the Wizards score first!"

"Come on, James!" Ginny cupped her hands in front of her mouth and yelled.

"Oh, looks like Draco has seen the snitch! Harry's speeding to catch up . . . no, it's a feint. Now, now, kids, no fighting in mid-air. Of course, Draco's never beaten Harry in Quidditch so . . . hey! That was rude!"

"The Muggle is racing to catch the quaffle . . . well, Bill is the one actually . . . never mind, you know what I mean . . . they're headed straight for the ground, if they don't pull up soon they'll crash . . . Oh! That was close!"

Brennan pulled her trembling fingers away from her eyes and released her pent-up breath at the sight of Booth's broom still safely airborne. She gasped as a flash of gold buzzed in front of her, and then jerked back when Harry and Draco suddenly sped by. "What . . ."

Lee was in raptures. "Wow, did you see that? The Muggle snatched up the quaffle right before it hit the ground! Somebody check his hands for an Everstick Charm! He's headed to the hoops . . . nice bit of dodging the bludger there, Bill! Wood is circling . . . waiting . . . Ouch! Wood caught the quaffle but dropped it through the hoop behind him! And the score is tied!"

"He scored!" Ginny laughed up at Brennan. "Your husband, he scored! That's good, come on, cheer for him!" she encouraged.

Brennan nodded and clapped her hands together feebly, her eyes tracking Booth as he and Bill sped through the air chasing the red ball being passed between two players in white. She saw Bill lean forward to speak in his ear and then Booth's nod right before they . . .

"The Crosby Split!" Lee jumped up in his excitement. "Did you see that? The Muggle, well, Bill . . . whatever, they did the Crosby Split and stole the quaffle! Now the Muggle looks like he's . . . no, he can't throw the quaffle from there, it will never . . . HE SCORED! WHAT A THROW! Someone call England, that Muggle has an arm on him!"

The cheers from the stands were deafening. Someone behind her patted Brennan heartily on the shoulder, congratulating her for Booth's score.

"Uh oh, here come Ron and George . . . oooh, they're sent off course by a well-placed bludger from Chang. Here they come again . . . Pucey has the quaffle . . . ouch! She's hit in the leg by a bludger from King . . . Ron has the quaffle, here he comes . . . And his throw is blocked by Potter! Muggles still ahead . . ."

Brennan relaxed by inches as the match progressed and Booth managed to stay on the broom. Judging by his expression he was having the time of his life as he and Bill chased the red ball through the air, tossing it back and forth between another player in black. Occasionally she took her eyes off him and watched Harry and Draco flying even higher above the stadium. The two men didn't seem to like each other, she thought, watching them elbow each other or kick out to knock the other off course.

She had no idea what the score was, no idea who was winning and it was impossible to tell by the vocal response of the audience seated around her. They seemed to cheer every time the red ball sailed through a hoop, no matter which end of the pitch it occurred. They seemed even happier when one of the other balls . . . what were they called? Oh, yes, bludgers, she remembered. The audience certainly seemed to enjoy seeing a player bludgeoned by a bludger. She smiled faintly and promised herself to remember to share that play on words with Booth.

The random flash of gold was back, buzzing in her line of sight. Irritated, she waved a hand in front of her and crooked her head to follow Booth as he flew through the air. He had the quaffle under his arm and was headed toward the hoops when a bludger hit the back of his broom, sending it spinning and surprising him into releasing the red ball. With a whoop she heard all the way up here, Ron and George raced over, snatched the quaffle up before it hit the ground and then sent it sailing through their own hoop before Bill could get his broom back under control. Whatever comment Booth yelled at Ron had the red-haired man laughing and responding with a rude gesture as he and George sped away.

A blur of black and white filled her vision as Harry and Draco chased each other, flashing in front of the stands. Brennan shook her head at their speed. _They're not even wearing helmets!_ she though. _That's so dangerous . . ._

She was watching the seekers chase each other when the glint of gold fluttered above her again. It buzzed in place, hanging directly in front of her, sunlight sending sparks dancing from its surface. _"What is that?"_ she wondered, irritated. Without thinking, her reflexes honed by years of martial arts training, she reached out and grabbed it.

The entire stadium seemed to freeze. Ginny gasped and turned around, eyes wide. Beside her, one hand covering her mouth, Hermione stared at the small golden ball resting quietly in Brennan's outstretched palm.

Brennan examined it curiously. Fragile wings fluttered then curled back into the golden orb as it set there, motionless.

It took a moment before she noticed the silence around her and looked up into Hermione's dumbfounded gaze. "What happened?" she asked. "Why are you staring at me?" She cast a look around. "Why is everyone staring at me?"

Hermione's hand moved slowly away from her lips.

"You caught the snitch."

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><p><em>Bet you didn't see that coming. :-D<em>


	15. Chapter 15

"I don't know what that means."

Brennan looked around curiously. On the field, the bludgers stopped mid-flight, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Players began to land, looking at each other curiously, staring into the sky where Draco and Harry continued to chase each other.

Hermione's mouth open and closed as she struggled for words. She stared helplessly at Ginny, who shrugged in confusion, and then glanced down where most of the players had gathered. "You caught the snitch," she said again when she looked back at Brennan. "That ends the game."

Brennan stared at the small gold ball lying on her open palm. "But . . . I'm not a competitor. This . . . object . . . was simply there. I reached out and . . ."

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High above everything, Harry noticed the bludgers fall to the ground and pulled up, cursing. Draco came to a hovering stop beside him.

"Damn you, Potter," he snarled.

"Get off, Malfoy," Harry responded, his face a mask of dislike. "Where is it?"

Draco paused, blinking. "I don't have it. I thought you did."

"What? No." Harry shook his head, confused. "You didn't catch it?"

"No." Both men looked around for the flutter of golden wings. The players below looked up, waiting for a signal from one of the seekers. "But if you didn't . . . and I didn't . . ."

Movement in the stands drew their attention as people turned and pointed to the top seats. "No . . ." Harry said softly. "It's not possible . . ."

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"We won!" Booth slammed his tankard on the table. The crowd at the Three Broomsticks listened avidly as the argument that had begun at the untimely end of the Quidditch match continued.

"We were ahead 120 - 90!" Ron yelled back. "We won!"

"But Bones caught that little ball," Booth argued. "We won!"

"I didn't see her on a broom," Ron pointed out. "Doesn't count. We win!"

"What d'you mean it doesn't count? She's my wife! It counts! We win!"

"Well, you didn't see my wife interfering with the game! No points! We win!"

"I wasn't . . ." Brennan began. Hermione touched her lightly on the arm.

"Reason and facts are useless at this point," she said, shaking her head. "They're having too much fun arguing."

"Look, pal, Bones is a . . a muggle, like me," Booth shrugged. "So, it has to count. Bones!" He looked over his shoulder at her. "What's that . . . that cookie thing?"

"Cookie thing?" she repeated, stumped.

"Yea." He snapped his fingers. "The cookie thing, you know, that Latin cookie thing . . ."

Brennan's face cleared as she laughed. " 'Ipso facto Colombo Oreo?' That Latin cookie thing?"

"Yea!" Booth pointed a finger at Ron. "Bones is a muggle, I'm a muggle, ipso facto Colombo Oreo, her points count! We win."

Ron shook his head. "Those aren't even real words! Hermione," he said, searching for her, "those aren't even real words, are they? He can't use those!"

"Well . . ."

"Look," Booth interrupted. "What do you usually do when this happens? Who gets the points?"

"What . . ." Ron's mouth hung open as he stared at Booth. "What do we usually . . . ? THIS DOESN'T HAPPEN!" He placed his hands palm down on the table and leaned forward. "You can't just . . . just grab the snitch out of thin air! Seekers are rare, it's an unusual skill . . . you have to be fast and agile and . . ."

"And a muggle, apparently." Booth crossed his arms over his chest and sat back, his expression smug. "Bones just grabbed it, didn't she? We win."

"No! That's not . . ."

A burst of laughter echoed across the pub, coming from a small table where George and Lee sat examining heavy, dust covered volumes. Around the room, voices quietened and arguments faded as heads turned in that direction.

"This is brilliant," George laughed again. "Bloody brilliant." Noticing the silence he looked up into the faces staring at him. "Brilliant," he said again. He walked to where Booth and Ron sat and slapped the American hard on the shoulder.

"We just saw the first muggle/wizard Quidditch match ever," George announced. "And I'm wizard enough to admit it, he played pretty damn well." He hauled Booth to his feet. "Let's hear it for the Yank!" he yelled, clapping and cheering loudly as, only slightly abashed, Booth grinned widely and lifted one fist in triumph as he rotated in a slow circle around the room.

"But that wasn't enough," George added, speaking over the subsiding revelry. "Not only do we play a muggle/wizard Quidditch match but we can't even say - definitively - who won because for the first . . . time . . . ever . . ." he said slowly, emphasizing the words, "the snitch was caught by someone in the audience. And not only some random bloke but . . ." he paused dramatically and then wrapped one arm around Brennan's shoulders and pulled her up next to him. ". . . It was caught by A MUGGLE!" Brennan glanced around uncertainly, smiling faintly at the applause and celebratory calls of her name.

"This day will live forever in the history of muggle/wizard relations," George added theatrically. "We will be debating the outcome for years to come. I don't know who that poor chap is whose bones were rotting in the field outside the village," he added, "but I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to him. So," he concluded, releasing Brennan and lifting his mug, "here's to ol' moldy!"

"Here here," the gathered multitude chanted and raised their own drinks.

"Oh!" Brennan exclaimed loudly before pulling out a chair beside Hermione. "Today's events almost distracted me from remembering to show you the image Angela sent last night." She picked up the large backpack she'd brought with her that morning and, withdrawing several pages, spread them in front of Hermione. "This is her rendering of how the person you found buried may have looked." Several people pushed closer to the table to get a look at the image. "I have several copies," Brennan said and passed them among those closest.

Harry picked up one sheet. "He looks familiar," he murmured, a frown forming between his eyes.

"Yea, a bit," Ron agreed, studying the image over Harry's shoulder.

"Your friend," George said, staring down at the unsmiling face on the page, "she did this just from the bones?"

"Angela did, yes," Brennan nodded. "She's very good at her job."

A grizzled old wizard passed by on his way to the men's room and paused to glance at the image in Harry's hand. "Ah, so it's ol' Wonky, then, the bones you found?" he said, shaking his head. "Pity." Harry grabbed his arm as he started to amble on.

"Wait . . . you know who this is?" he asked, shaking the page he held.

"Well, yea," the wizard nodded. "It's not a very good picture but that's definitely old Wonky."

"Wonky who?" Harry asked, his voice urgent.

"It's Wonky Shunpike, idn't it?" the old man answered, in a tone that said the identity should have been obvious. "With that snozz, who else could it be? Disappeared more'n forty years ago. Might be close to fifty now," he said. "'bout time he was found."

Harry's attention was caught by a veiled, hunchbacked witch sitting by herself in the corner who had suddenly begun to choke. Sounds of coughing and wheezing escaped from beneath the thick, black lace covering her face. His eyes narrowed. "Hermione," he said quietly, nodding toward the corner when he had her attention.

Hermione stared for a short moment before her jaw dropped. "No," she said, turning back to Harry. "Surely not . . . he wouldn't try that again!"

"Worked for him before, didn't it?" Harry asked, his voice tight. "And the match today, all that wagering to do . . ." He nodded. "Only one way to find out . . ." Pointing his wand at the witch he yelled out, "Mundungus!"

With a brilliant flash of light the veil was ripped from the witches head, revealing a stumpy, wrinkled old man sporting a few strands of faded ginger hair stretched across a bald, spotted head. Eyes wide and alarmed, he jumped up and dashed for the door.

"_Impedimenta__!"_ Harry yelled, sending Dung crashing to the floor. Harry and Ron hurried over, wands pointed down at the panting wizard.

" 'ere now," Dung grumbled. "You coulda hurt me w' tha bleedin' spell."

Ron searched his robes and removed his wand before dragging him back to the chair he'd just vacated.

"As you could have hurt unknown innocents with that fake Wolfsbane Potion you sold the werewolves?" Hermione asked archly, her face etched with dislike as she faced the old criminal. On hearing this the crowd around them began to mutter angrily, talking among themselves and moving restlessly. After a glance at Hermione, Harry and Ron spent a few minutes clearing the room. Brennan and Booth stood off to the side, watching in silence.

Alone now, Harry pulled out a chair and sat opposite the old felon. "I think a fake potion isn't the reason Mundungus was running," Harry said. "I saw you choke when old Connell identified this man as Wonky Shunpike." He placed the image on the table in front of Dung. "Why? Do the bones we found at the memorial site belong to Wonky Shunpike? Is that who it is?"

Mundungus pushed the photo away with one grubby finger. " 'course I know the man. 'e was me best mate, wadn't 'e?"

"Your best mate?" Ron asked, his voice scornful. "And you killed him and buried him outside Hogsmeade?"

"I bloody well did not kill 'im," Dung said, insulted. "It were those fancy muggles what did it!"

Hermione and Harry exchanged a shocked look. "Muggles killed a wizard?" Hermione asked, her voice raised high in surprise.

Dung shook his head at them as if they were the children they used to be. "Wonky was a Squib, wadn't 'e? 'Course, me, I didn't hold that against 'im," Dung added, nodding self-righteously. " 'e was alright in my book, ol Wonky."

"Yea, you're a regular hero, Dung," Harry said acerbically. "Why did muggles kill Wonky Shunpike? And how did he end up buried here, in Hogsmeade, with no one knowing about it?"

The crooked old wizard let out a huge sigh and sat back in his chair. "Me and Wonky, see, we had this money makin' opportunity." Hermione groaned and closed her eyes. "These fancy muggles, them what liked the fancy suits, they wanted to buy some gold. So, me and Wonky, we sold 'em some gold." He shrugged carelessly.

"You sold them leprechaun gold, didn't you?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Leprechaun gold is real?" Booth interrupted. Immediately, he waved his hand. "Never mind. Of course it is."

Ron looked over his shoulder at the Americans. "Yea, it's real." Turning back to Mundungus he added, "The only problem is that it disappears after a few days."

"Worked like a charm it did," Dung continued. "We 'ad a real money makin' concern goin'." He shook his head sadly. "And then we ran into them blokes again and before I could get us out of there, one of the buggers pulled out this . . . thing . . ." he held his hand in the shape of a pistol, "and Wonky's 'ead fair exploded, it did. If I hadn't gotten us away, me 'ead would 'ave 'ad a 'ole innit, too."

"And you didn't tell anyone? You just buried him, without telling his family?" Hermione was appalled.

"Well, 'e was a squib, wadn't 'e?" Dung said by way of explanation. "That ol' bitty 'e was married to was always telling 'im she'd be better off wiffout 'im, and the boy, too. I gave 'er what she wanted. 'e was already dead, wadn't e? I didn't do nuthin' wrong."

Hermione stared at him, open mouthed. "I can't begin to list everything you did wrong, Dung." She shook her head. "You are going to have to explain this to the Wizengamot."

"I'm sorry," Brennan stepped forward. "What just happened? This man has identified the remains? And the events that lead to his death?"

"It seems so, Dr. Brennan," Hermione answered.

"So what happens now?" Booth asked.

"He will face the Wizengamot," Harry explained. Seeing their questioning gaze, he added, "The Wizengamot is our High Court. There will be a trial and he'll likely end up in Azkaban . . . wizard prison," he concluded.

"What about the men who killed him?" Brennan asked.

"We don't administer muggle justice," Hermione said. "And given your shorter life spans, they may not be alive now anyway."

Booth and Brennan looked at each other. "So that's it?" Booth asked.

Harry shrugged. "That's it. We know who it is. That's the important thing."

Brennan glanced at her watch. "We still have time to make our flight home," she said to Booth.

"Sure, since the Quidditch match ended prematurely!" Ron grumbled.

Booth slapped his shoulder. "Don't be a sore loser, Ron."

"We didn't lose! You didn't win!"

"Sore loser."

"We didn't lose!"

"Booth . . . "

"Ron . . . "

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"I can't thank you enough, Dr. Brennan, for your help," Hermione said. She, Harry and Ron were standing in the sitting room of the hotel room, saying their goodbyes after returning Booth and Brennan to London.

"It was . . . certainly . . . interesting," Brennan responded. "But, I have to admit that I have enjoyed meeting all of you and learning about . . . your . . . culture." She paused. "How will we get the remains back to you?"

"Oh, we'll take care of those," Hermione answered, waving one hand casually. "Are you sure we can't take you to the airport? It would be a much faster journey."

"No," Brennan answered, glancing at Booth. "I think we'll take our chances with the transportation to which we're accustomed."

"Of course," Hermione nodded. "I understand. But I hope you will accept these small tokens of our appreciation." She pulled a small beaded bag out of the pocket of her robes. Opening it, she withdrew a long wooden box. Brennan opened her mouth to comment on the size of the box relative to the tiny bag but changed her mind. "This is for your daughter," Hermione explained. "It's a hangman's game."

"A hangman's game?" Brennan asked, reaching out for the box. "The spelling game?"

"Yes," she said. "It's actually from Ron's shop. The hanged man climbs up the scaffold and hangs himself if the word is misspelled."

Brennan was thrilled. "Moira will certainly enjoy this."

Hermione next withdrew a thick, rectangular box. "We thought your sons might enjoy this. It's a chess set. They might be a bit young yet but . . ."

Brennan shook her head. "They're four years old. Of course they play chess."

"Oh." Hermione blinked. "Yes, well . . . erm . . . they might need a bit of supervision the first few times they play with this particular set. Wizard's chess is played with the same rules as muggle chess but the pieces take their roles a bit more seriously."

Brennan and Booth exchanged an uncertain glance before Booth reached out for the box. "We'll keep an eye on them."

Ron pulled a bottle from his pocket and held it out. "This is for you, mate. Firewhiskey." He smiled broadly. "Just don't drink it all at once."

Booth's answering smile was just as wide as he took the bottle. "No, I think I learned that lesson."

Hermione reached into her beaded bag once more. "You have your book, of course, Dr. Brennan, but I thought you might also like to have this." She unwrapped a soft cloth to reveal the small golden snitch. "Since you caught it," she smiled.

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_**Five**__** Years **__**Later**__** . . . . . . **_

_**.**_

_**.**_

**_._**

The sound of the doorbell barely registered above the screaming of the seven girls running through the house. Booth closed his eyes and prayed his eardrums would survive the night. "I'll get it!" he yelled, to no one in particular.

"It's probably the pizza," Brennan said, coming out of the kitchen.

"We ordered _more_ pizza? How much can a bunch of girls eat?" Shaking his head, he opened the door. "Yes? Can I help you?"

The woman in front of him smiled in a friendly manner. She wore a bright, colorful dress that brushed the tops of her shoes and her dark, silver-tinted hair hung over one shoulder in a thick braid.

"Mr. Booth?" she asked and, peering over his shoulder added, "Dr. Brennan? My name is Geneva Quimby." She held out her hand in greeting. "We've never met and you may not remember me but I assisted with a . . . delivery from England a few years ago."

Brennan and Booth exchanged a glance. "I remember the . . . delivery," Brennan said slowly, accepting a brief handshake.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Geneva smiled. "I would like a moment of your time, if I may?"

Booth moved slightly, blocking the door with his wide shoulders. "What is this about?" he asked suspiciously. "This really isn't a good time. Our daughter has friends over to celebrate her birthday."

"Actually," Geneva said, her grin broadening as she held out a pale green, square envelope, "it's your daughter I've come to discuss."

Brennan reached out for the envelope, turning it over to examine the back. On the flap, in dark emerald ink, were the words _Salem Institute of Magic_.

And on the front . . .

_Miss __Moira__ Caroline__ Booth  
>The<em>_ Purple__ Bedroom  
>1407 <em>_Crider__ Brook__ Way  
>Potomac<em>_, __Maryland_

_._

_._

_.  
><em>

_**The End**  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Thank you very much for letting me journey into the silliness that is Bones meets Harry Potter. As an avid fan of both, I had entirely too much fun with this one. I hope you enjoyed it, too! <em>

_Thanks, again!_


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